The Year of Living Sabbatically, Part 3: Lisbon to Cape Town on Regent’s Splendor
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This 3-week voyage down the western coast of Africa disturbed me. It moved me. It upset me. It challenged me. It shocked me. It shook me. It humbled me. It tested me. It saddened me. It inspired me. It enlightend me.
This 3-week voyage down the western coast of Africa changed me.
But first, we land in one of Europe’s hottest, coolest, hippest, most diverse cities – Lisboa!
Lisbon
Saturday
Arrived around 9pm on a warm and raucous Saturday night. Our hotel, in a residential Chiado neighborhood sandwiched between the riverfront and the main shopping area, is in an old historic non-elevator building. We need to carry our many big and heavy bags (remember, we’re traveling for 10 weeks, to various seasons, climates, cultures and geographies) to our room on the 6th floor, as there’s only one receptionist at the desk in the tiny lobby and no one to help us. Thomas and I manage without having a cardiac arrest, but just barely. Our attic room is smallish and has no closet or hangers, with very little space for our luggage; Thomas is too tall to stand in the shower and most of the bathroom; I bang my head when I get from the toilet. Thankfully, there is a lovely little balcony and view of the river in the distance …
We head out for a walk. It's late, but the streets are alive with families and an array of young people out partying, most about 1/3 our age. Very different vibe than our destinations in Italy: much younger, grittier, hipper, more diverse and international. First time I’m smelling marijuana since arriving in Europe. We’re tired and hungry from a day of travel, so we walk to Time Out Market near the Tagus River to grab a quick meal at one of its gourmet stalls. Dry night tonight. A little stroll around the neighborhood before we climb those stairs agan and collapse into bed.
Portugal’s modern renaissance started in the 2010’s when the British arrived for party weekends and the French, smelling a bargain, started buying properties. This city is now on everyone’s radar, as is Portugal in general. Rated by Travel & Leisure and other organizations who do that sort of thing as Europe’s most popular city, Europe’s most vibrant food/wine destination, Europe’s best choice for digital nomads, etc. It indeed looks and feels busier, more urban than when we visited on our real estate expedition Nov. 2019, right before covid hit. Many more black and brown faces, mostly young, speaking Portuguese, English, Spanish, than we’ve seen anywhere since arriving in Europe. Many more young hipster types. Not necessarily the monied or wanna-bes you see around other hot spots – there are a few of those – but rather kids from around the world rediscovering and reawakening this “City of Discovery”. Several young men offer to sell Thomas weed, coke, X …
Sunday
After a quick but wonderful café and croissant and sandwiche jambon at a padaria portuguesa, we walk across town to join our 4-hour bike tour of Lisboa. Francophone of Portuguese descent, Sylvia leads our ride, mostly along the riverfront, taking us to the expected points of interest (Tour de Belem, Monument to the Discoveries, Praca do Comercio) plus a few places I haven’t seen before: LX Market, the roof of the cool-looking MAAT (Lisbon’s Museum of Art, Architecture and Technology), and Pasteis de Belem, where the monk who supposedly invented pasteis de nata supposedly honed his still-secret recipe, supposedly taking the yolks from the eggs whose whites were used to starch clothes of the clergy in nearby Jeronimos Monastery, to create these sinfully rich and sweet little gems. They were hot and amazing.
After the 25 mile mostly riverfront bike ride (the narrow, steep streets of the old town are not bike-friendly at all), we get a cafe on a miradouro near the Pantheon overlooking eastern Lisbon. We take an impromptu walking tour of Alfama: up to Castelo San Jorge, Miradouro Santa Luzia, Miradouro and Igreja da Graca; then down through the winding roads of old neighborhoods, through a labyrinth of extremely cool and dazzling contemporary street art, such a present-day contrast to the faded old glories of Lisbon …
We finish off a really glorious Sunday with a really glorious al fresco dinner at a Portuguese restaurant 10 minutes from our hotel, with the added treat of watching the trams past as we dine –
We stroll Lisboa at night: Chiado to Praca do Comercio to Pink Street, which used to be the heart of Lisbon’s red light district, and still the heart of its sleazier nightlife. Lots of clubs, bars, and drug dealers who, again tonight, really seem attracted to Thomas.
;0
Monday
Work day. Breakfast at “our” padaria, then return to our quest to find a currency exchange place that takes US dollars. Western Union is alive and well and thankfully changing dollars for euros in Lisboa, which may or may not make sense as we’re leaving Europe in a day … Thomas needs to work on his Africa presentations, so I set out on my own, exploring Alfama again, this time discovering the old Jewish Quarter. Like good tourists, Thomas and I meet at the scenic Santa Luzia miradoura for a cafe overlooking Lisboa and the riverfront. Back at our aerie of a hotel room, a phone call with Catherine I’ve been dreading turns out surprisingly pleasant. The view from our balcony this time of day is perfect. We enjoy another fantastic Portuguese dinner, this time in Duque. There are several small Duque restaurants, all offering the same amazing local food with friendly service; they line Rua do Duque, one after the other. We walk the streets of Barrio Alto – my first time exploring Lisbon’s famed neighborhood of Faro - to its Miradoura and enjoy another view of Lisboa by night. Alas, we’re too late to drop in anywhere to enjoy Portugal’s soulful, mournful faro music and song; it will have to wait until our next visit.
Tuesday
Our last day on the continent. I wake up sad.
We have a very busy morning. Poor Thomas needs to be at the US Embassy on the other side of town at 8:00am to notarize some divorce docs due to some lawyer screw-up or another. Thomas left his glasses in the Uber, and the driver comes back to drop them off at the hotel … We meet for our last breakfast at our padaria as the trams pass by; do a little shopping; try to find a portable printer and can’t, so we find a place to print out his presentation documents; get a haircut for Thomas. He looks like a different man entirely with his new shorter, stylish coiffe, very Hollywood business exec. We descend our 1,000 lbs. of luggage from our hotel aerie and hop a cab to the cruise port. At my insistence, we get our VAT refund, then board Regent’s Splendor for points west and south.
I’m afraid I’ve been spoiled by the food in Italy and Portugal and will never enjoy a meal again. Even on a luxury cruise ship. The thought of leaving Europe after having enjoyed so many miles of her countryside, so many gallons of her wine, so many meals of her food – I’m overcome with melancholy. I adore la dolce vita, la farniente, la vida loca, la belle vie – and I will miss it. Until I return again. Perhaps for good.
The Regent Splendor – Regent is considered a fairly high-end cruise line - welcomes us and about 1,200 passengers. This is a considerably larger vessel than Thomas and I have sailed together on. (We just sailed 2-weeks non-stop across the Atlantic from Barbados to Lisbon on a 4-masted sailing ship with less than 70 passengers.) Unlike many cruise lines, Regent passengers pay a dizzyingly high price up front, which includes nearly everything (except Spa services): excursions, gratuities, high end dining, and I believe even most drinks and cocktails. We will spend three weeks together in our lovely, roomy balcony stateroom, on a recently renovated, elegantly appointed, multi-decked ship with plenty of bars, restaurants, and lounges. Nonetheless, I’m concerned that the 24/7 togetherness may become a bit too close and constant for comfort. Commitment phobe that I am.
And so we set sail on our next adventure: the points south along the Atlantic and Africa! Professore Thomas will be giving 10 Enrichment Lectures on the history and culture of several of our sub-Saharan destinations, including Ancient Africa, Cap Verde, Senegal, French Colonialism, Abidjan/Cote d’Ivoire, Sao Tome, The Scramble for Africa, Independence, Namibia, Cape Town/South Africa. He introduces us to Africa as the birthplace of modern man, ironically, with the story of Lucy, Earth’s first Homo Sapian. Mother of us all.
Agadir
Morocco
I love Morocco: it is a magical country of mysterious cities, savory dishes, exotic crafts, blooming roses, glorious desert towns, rivers beds, lush oases and undulating Saharan dunes.
Agadir is none of these.
During my 12-year stint at Club Med, I’d visited Agadir twice. Then and now, my least favorite stop in Morocco. The town, basically a beach resort, is not interesting, except the labyrinthine Grand Bazaar, which Thomas and I decided to skip. One end of the long, crescent moon beach has beautiful water and soft sand; the other is dirty, strewn with garbage, and annoying crowds. The hawkers are aggressive. We walked the entire beach, had a coffee on the nice end, enjoyed some local music, bought some argan oil products, and reboarded the ship.
Las Islas Canarias
Lanzarota
Geographically in Africa though technically in Europe, the Canaries are a part of Spain. Dramatic and quite desolate, Lanzarota is not much more than a currently-dormant series of volcano cones and craters. The last eruptions a few hundred hundred years ago nearly completely devastated the place. It’s now finding its stride as a sports and adventure vacation destination and unlikely wine region. Our young two-woman team – tour guide and driver - took us on a wild ride through the narrow paths of its Parco Nacional Timanfaya. Stunning in its starkness, a multi-hued lunar landscape, shades of reds, oranges, burnt siennas, browns. Which has a restaurant where they roast chicken on an open hearth in the heat rising from heart of the volcano. There’s a very green lagoon on one of its rocky coasts, and a nascent wine industry employing special planting techniques to maximize the fairly-recently spewn volcanic soil. We bought of bottle of the local white, delightfully very light and very dry.
Santa Cruz de Tenerife
We make another stop in the Canaries, to the lively and hip town Tenerife. We opted for an afternoon at Playa de Las Teresitas, a nice, convenient though man-made beach an easy bus ride from town. Later we have a delicious dinner - our last in Europe for a while - at a busy tapas bar, where we forget a bag of Spanish turron under the table - demaisiado vino!
At sea, heading to Cape Verde.
Sitting on our balcony, watching little flying fish glide like birds over the surface of the surprisingly calm mid-Altlantic …
Professore gives a wonderful and moving presentation, A Quick History of Africa. He talks about Lucy and our earliest known Homo Sapien ancestors, who hail from Eastern and Southern Africa; her diversity of geographies, climates, cultures; her troubled history and enormous potential.
Tomorrow’s topic is on Cap Verde, Africa’s first nation to gain independence from its colonial ruler, Portugal, who developed – or, rather, exploited – the islands as an international way-station in the early days of the slave trade.
Because we are so unfamiliar with the places we will visit, and because we have so little time in each port, Thomas and I decide to join the ship’s tours rather than attempting to explore on our own. There are many ports of call, a lot to see and do, and we do not want to waste time on logistics or making the wrong choice(s). And we certainly don’t want to get lost!
Sao Vicente
Cape Verde
We book the Island tour of Sao Vicente. Our charismatic guide, Arlindo(?) Rodrigues, an award-winning local musician who performs internationally, and our driver take us on a walk/hike through some stark dormant red, brown and ebony volcanic hills. We stop for more photo ops at a farming community, a turtle rescue center, a dramatic beach where the mamma turtles lay their eggs, and ivory dunes blown over the ocean all the way from the Sahara. After a refreshing dip at a pretty, calmer beach, we enjoy a delicious lunch prepared by local ladies, washed down with a cold Cap Verde beer.* Some of our fellow travelers are quite formidable characters, including Marco and Bianca, both former journalists in Italy: he covered La Brigada Rossa; she wrote about the Mafia in Sicilia. We then climb up up up to Monte Verde for a spectacular view of the San Vincente and surrounding islands. En route out and back, Arlindo regals us with samples of the islands’ music including “Sodade”, a song made famous by the incomparable Cesaria Evora. We sing along. In the colorful town of Mindelo, we see lots of people selling their wares, working their craft, living their lives. After the tour Thomas and I hit the local beach near the port, a 20-minute walk from the ship, with white white Saharan sand and Bahamian blue water, for a swim and a coffee at the café. A delicate, delightful intro to Africa.
*I should mention that I discovered at lunch that I left a set of earrings I bought in Sedona on the beach when I removed them for our swim. Thomas and I returned to the beach and miraculously, with the help of a few kind local people, Thomas, my hero, found them in the sand …
Goree Island / Dakar
Senegal
The African adventure continues in Senegal, our first stop on the sub-Saharan continent. An impressive selection of artwork from their Biennale greets us at the ferry port to Goree Island. We board the boat to Goree, both excited and anxious about what we will experience at this former slave shipping outpost, the last stop for thousands of people shipped in chains across the Atlantic. Merchants and beautiful local women in their colorful batik robes and headdress, begin their sales pitch here in the port, which will continue on the ferry and on the island …
Goree Island is now a gorgeous tropical paradise welcoming international tourists and Dakarois alike with plenty of crafts stalls and cafes, as well as history. Many buildings of the colonial period remain in various states of dis/repair, further adding to its charm. One of the prettiest, La Maison des Esclaves (The House of Slaves) has a sad and ugly past. Essentially an inn for people embarking on the Europe/Americas or transatlantic voyage, La Maison des Esclaves welcomed wealthy travelers in large, comfortable rooms on the upper floor, while enslaved people forced to make the trip were shackled to the walls, dozens to a room, on the ground floor. These people passed through La Porte de No Retour (The Point of No Return) and onto ships transporting them across the Atlantic, far from home and family, to a life of bondage, hardship and endless labor, never to return.
Goree Island’s history has recently been revised; apparently it wasn’t quite the active slave shipping center as had been previously believed. Other ports in other west African countries such as Ghana and Benin transported considerably more enslaved people to Brazil and the Caribbean to work in the Americas on sugar, coffee, cotton, rice, tobacco and other plantations than Goree. But this beautiful place seems to hold the spiritual heart of the sad, shared history of the slave trade; you feel it as you visit the pretty town square that served as an open-air slave market, the fort that now houses its history museum. An intense experience on many levels that triggered strong reactions from visitors, including Nelson Mandela and the Obamas, and us.
We returned to the mainland and jumped into a shuttle to check out Dakar, a big, bustling, chaotic, rather unwieldy city with construction seemingly everywhere. This felt like today’s Africa. Open-air stalls and vendors everywhere, selling everything. Once a French colony, you could still see and smell her influence in the stores and cafes. The city has a strong art scene, and plenty of passengers went on the hunt for her traditional and modern artworks. We visited probably the only church in the Muslim city before it was time to return to the ship.
The Gambia
Wow.
Eye opening. Sobering. Saddening. Remarkable.
We arrive in Banjul, capital of The Gambia, a former British colony. We chose a tour to the Makasutu Nature Preserve, about an hour’s drive outside the city. Crossing Banjul in our modern, comfortable, air-conditioned, China-made coach, we see street after street of one or two story stone, wood and concrete block huts covered by ill-fitting corrugated steel roofs. How do they survive the rainy season in these frail-looking lean-tos with so many gapping holes? No real stores to speak of, more like stalls open to the street selling food, clothes, hardware, housewares, toiletries, whatever. Ladies selling fruits. Thomas says he’s never seen such poverty anywhere –
Things don’t improve as we drive out of town, across the mouth of the Gambia River, through other towns, small villages, army barracks, the university. Despite its taller, more modern buildings, expensive European cars, and affluent Lebanese, Indian and Chinese population, even the next biggest city Serrekunda looks dusty and dingy. Lots of storefronts spilling out onto the street and souk-like markets behind them. Favela-like communities. Apparently Gambians shop for food and other necessities three times a day. They eat what they buy; I’m guessing home storage and refrigeration is an issue for many families. These homes appear not to have electricity, running water, or floors for that matter.
Refuse mostly in the form of non-recyclable plastics is strewn all along nearly the entire highway. I’m guessing there’s no real sanitation or garbage removal system; these bits are what remains after people have picked through every usable/reusable scrap.
It is Friday, the Muslim day of worship and rest. People on the street all seemed elegant, almost regal, dressed in the “Sunday best”. Women in lovely, colorful long skirts, blouses and headdresses; men in immaculate pants and pressed shirts. They carried themselves with such grace and dignity, despite the dusty streets and poverty around them.
We make it to Makasutu, a Nature reserve founded by British (?) naturalists looking for the perfect spot to set up a preserve. The roads inside are very pitted, too much for our buses to navigate. We have to wait outside a school for smaller vans to take us inside, much to the chagrin of its teachers, as we are an enormous distraction. The students swarm the gates and climb the fence to get a look at the white people and the big shiny bus –
When we finally make it inside, we are greeting by families of baboons on the road to a pond where we are served really delicious empanada-like paddies (I chose the vegetarian) and Nescafe. Our local guide took us on a walking tour of the preserve, introducing us to Gambia’s plant life, telling us of their various traditional and medicinal uses. We watch as a barefoot man climbs a tall, slender palm tree and hacks off coconuts. We are invited to sample the very potent palm wine brew.
Then we wait. We wait for the vans to shuttle us back to the entrance, then wait some more for shuttles to meet the big buses to bring us back to the ship.
At the entrance, the baboons flock nonchalantly; we’re in their house, after all. Mammas with babies. Young ones playing around us. Nasty looking males. We can get fairly close. There’s also a small marketplace selling some crafts and clothing. Thomas, on his new-found quest to find hand-carved wooden animals, befriends a charming young merchant named Yusupha from whom he bought a small elephant. We take a few photos, and he asks if we can send them to him. We exchange WhatsApp info.
(I wasn’t born yesterday; yes, I’m aware this could be potentially unwise for several reasons. Amicable Yusupha may be collecting digits from wealthy travelers to sell to hackers with bad intentions; he could be collecting them for his own personal, less than honest, purposes(s). Western Africa is famous for its internet scammers … Nonetheless, I choose to take the risk; whether or not I will later regret my choice remains to be seen.)
We learn that one of the buses was damaged on the ride in requiring a replacement, which added to the long hot wait time at departure. We finally hit the road and make it back to the ship without a problem.
Thomas and I needed to process what we saw and experienced. People of such overwhelming priviledge coming face to face with people who seem to have very little in terms of materials comforts and such difficult lives. Who seem to comport with confidence and grace. An interesting contrast to an encounter we had that night back on board our luxury cruise ship heading to another gourmet meal, when a very powdered and pampered blonde woman on our tour, sporting pink lipstick, pink tennis shoes and a pink shirt, told us how “horrible” she found the place. “Oh my gosh, it was so horrible.” We just smiled and walked on.
Cote d’Ivoire
Abidjan to Grand Bassam
Professor Thomas gives an enlightening talk on France’s unique approach to its colonial empire, and their belief and intention to bring their “superior” culture to their less civilized territories, and make them part of La France…
We have a police cavalcade accompanying us out of the Abidjan port and all along the route to through the Cote d’Ivoirian capital to the UNESCO protected former colonial capital city of Grand Bassam. Abidjan feels like a bustling, busy, hard-working city with some modern office and residential buildings along side some very large and meandering favelas. Apparently the route along the coast used to be covered in tropical palm forests; now it’s lined with open-air stalls or new-looking condos built by Italian developers.
I wish we could have had time to walk around Grand Bassam; I would have liked to take a closer look at the faded white European glory next to the present day African seaside town of market stalls, huts and busy people living their lives.
We did stop at the Costumes Museum to learn about the dress and customs of different indigenous West African peoples. And some of the uglier history of French colonization, of exploitation and insurrections and generally ugly behaviors by everyone involved. Apparently, in her attempt to bring her elevated culture and “civilization” to her colonies, France stirred up some toxic and still potent ill-will with the local populations. We bought more wooden carvings, and a straw sun hat from a surly Cote D’Ivoirienne lady.
Ghana
Takoradi and Sekondi-Takoradi
The Port of Takoradi seems relatively developed, political but peaceful, with lots of modern buildings, businesses, good roads, and police presence. As in other African nations, I believe the Chinese have been an active presence here, providing financing, engineering and other business development assistance, and it shows. We decide to forego the trip to Ghana’s infamous slave castles, European coastal forts also used to warehouse enslaved people before they were forced through the “Door of No Return” and onto ships transporting them to lives of bondage and labor in the strange lands across the Atlantic. We drive to Sekondi, a very active fishing and ship-making village bustling with boats, nets, sailors, fishermen, fishmongers.
We arrive at Sekondi, a region somehow lost in time. The past is very much present here. Colorful hand made boats of wood –some still under construction, others in use – of another era, packed with half-dressed fisherman, sailing in and out of the chaotic port. Thick piles of nets on the quay, an active fish market, and a visit to a modern fish shipping facility. A study in contrasts. At a hotel closer to port, we are later treated to cool drinks and a joyful music and dance presentation by local performers of every age, kids to adults to elders. When they asked for volunteers to learn some steps, of course Professore volunteered. He did great, my dancing fool.
On the drive we learned that English-speaking Ghana, unlike many other countries on the African continent, struggles less with problems such as unemployment (which was refreshingly low), high unemployment, a lack of career opportunities for young people, and disease control. Our guide told us that currently their main concerns were unfilled jobs and inflation. Very first world problems indeed.
We bought some nice gifts in the dockside marketplace. So far our destinations have been treasure troves of local arts and crafts, from sculptures to clothing to jewelry to pottery.
Togo
Lome
We awaken to the sound of drumming, and are greeted on the pier by amazing dancers and musicians, including stilt walkers doing gravity-defying moves.
No crafts markets here on the pier. Or anywhere. Interestingly, for according to our guide “one of the poorest countries in Africa”, the town had some very fancy buildings (mostly banks), looked relatively clean, and had well organized roads, with nice things such as beautiful furniture for sale in the market stalls spilling onto them.
Our first stop: a visit to a public elementary school.
We were greeted by so many excited, gorgeous children in uniform, some barefoot, probably all poor but clean and neat in the schoolyard and in extremely crowded classrooms. Some have over 100 students; all have kind, very patient teachers. The kids are generally friendly, excited, energetic; some are shy; all are sweet, and curious about the soft white old visitors.
;0
It was sad to see garbage strewn outside the school; unlike the Gambia, we hadn’t see this elsewhere on our drive in Togo.
Next, we’re off to a small village to meet the local king and queen, I believe of the Amaway people, a community of 12,000.
Loved the village, the people, the dancers, the drummers; didn’t like the pomp and spectacle of this very fake-feeling ceremony for the very fat and proud king and queen.
Thanksgiving Day at Sea
Woke up to a dolphin escort outside our balcony … a positive augur, I think.
Gym and a surprisingly interesting and disturbing talk by Professore about tiny Sao Tome and Principe. Thomas didn’t want turkey so we missed the traditional Thanksgiving dinner served in the main dining room and opted for Italian instead. Not happy about that.
Sao Tome
This tiny lush lovely islands nation has the dubious honor of being home to Africa’s first colonial slave plantation, created by the Portuguese to produce and export sugar to Europe and the New World. Seems that the sale of human beings for these purposes is in every way shape and form the expression of our worst selves, the exercise of our worst desires. People stolen, transported, and forced to work to mine gold and silver, to produce primarily sugar and tobacco, traded to buy guns and rum. Talk about a Vicious Cycle.
Another particularly ugly chapter involved the deportation of Jewish children from Spain to Sao Tome by the Portuguese. When Isabelle and Ferdinand kicked the Sephardim out of Spain, the Portuguese king took some of them in. When in 1496 they couldn’t or wouldn’t pay a head tax, he deported 2,000 of their children, ages 2 to 10, to work in the sugar trade. Nearly all of them died from harsh
We don’t have a lot of time here, and we couldn’t agree on where to go – Thomas wanted the beaches of the Lagoa Azul and Taramindo to the north, I wanted to see the ruins of colonial plantation Roca Azul, a few beaches, and Pico Grande south and east. So we decide to hire a not-cheap local taxi guide to take us around Sao Tome. Started out nice enough, driving through towns of precarious but colorful lean-tos nestled in the lush mountains and along the coast. We saw the local ladies washing clothes in the river, stopped at Boca da Inferno – the Mouth of Hell, and walked along praias Sete Ondes and Micondo, before stopping for a coffee upstairs at a very local café in Sao Joao de Angolares. We arrived at a miradora to view the tropical rain forest from above, and then the sky opened up. Teeming. I wanted to wait it out – tropical storms usually blow through fairly quickly - then continue to see the famous Pico. Which it did, so we did, through a palm plantation with some incredibly pitted dirt roads. Then just as we left the car to have an Instgramable look at Pico, another downpour hit. We ducked under a tree for five, ten, fifteen minutes to wait until the rain stopped. Except that it didn’t. Our driver, a tall handsome military man but no tour guide, insisted it was time to go. We were dripping, soaked to the skin; the roads would be worse, and the ship would be leaving. Driving back, we had to leave the windows cracked, as the windshield was opaque with condensation, and the driver had to use my shirt to continuously wipe it away. The torn-up roads, narrow and winding through the mountains of the tropical forest, were now deep puddles: the driver still couldn’t see, we were wet and cold in the back seat. Eventually the rain petered out (mostly), so we made a quick stop at Roca Azul for some photos. The storm clouds hovered over the north so we skipped our visit to the northern beaches. Even the town of Sao Tome’s streets were flooded. Alas we aborted our visit to the town and its museums, which we heard had some very nice art and interesting if horrifying history.
We had dinner with gli italiani Marco e Bianca, in il ristorante italiano, Sette Mare. He’s from Milano; she’s from Sicilia; both are giornalisti who have covered some incredible events. She reported on the Mafia; he on left-wing terrorism. After we went to the Observation Bar, drank cognac and made requests to the piano player. Thomas was flying high by his second cognac and wouldn’t leave the dancefloor. My dancing fool is at it again.
Weekend at Sea
I wake feeling crappy. Fortunately, though, my scratchy throat, probably from our wet, wild and drafty drive up and down the mountains of Sao Tome, doesn’t turn into something worse. We enjoy the ship, despite the foggy and cool weather. Which is doubly unfortunate, as we’re passing through one of Earth’s Dark Sky regions. And the stars, usually shining brighter in the night here than elsewhere, are for several days obscured by mist.
Professore gives his penultimate talk on Namibia. It’s Germany’s turn to get roasted for its brutal colonial past in Africa. Thomas is especially harsh and unforgiving with his countrymen’s history here, which he calls “a dress rehearsal for the Holocaust” as settlers did seem to be trying out the most effective ways to rid the place of its native Herero and other populations, humanity be damned.
Namibia
We arrive in Walvis Bay. Lots of white European faces here, and western conveniences: Before passing several watering holes pink with flamingos, desert roads golden with sand dunes, we could have been driving through the strip malls of New Jersey. After checking out the 2,000 "living fossil," we arrive at an “oasis” that reminds me of something you’d see on the outskirt of Las Vegas, western-themed, with a beer garden. Fun, but shockingly “American” after so many days emersed in Africana. That said, we avoid the very Bavarian, very white town of Swakopmund, a too-vivid remnant of the invasive, oppressive Germanification of the Namibian coast.
We decide we must come back to see Namibia’s Dark Sky on a clear night, the colored dunes of the Kalahari Desert, Skeleton Coast National Park. So much natural beauty, so little time.
Professor Thomas closes his series of talk on Africa with our final destination: South Africa. A lot to unpack here: The competing English and Dutch Afrikaans settlers, the oppression of native peoples, the Zulus and other communities striking back, the Boar War, 20th century apartheid, Nelson Mandela, the promise and disappointment of the ANC. He ends with a quote by Bishop Desmond Tutu on the Bantu belief in Ubuntu - “I am because we are” - our interconnectedness and shared humanity, emphasizing compassion, reciprocity, responsibility, respect, dignity and harmony. Then brings us full circle, reminding us of Lucy, our shared mother from this vast homeland, reminding us that “We are all African.”
Not a dry eye in the house.
Cape Town
Spectacular sail in. Dramatic green peaks and deep valleys, beachy shores and coves, endless sky punctuated by a few insistent clouds. We take a tour of the city, beginning with a Swiss-made revolving funicular to Table Mountain’s plateau, which, alas, was shrouded in fog. It broke briefly to let us enjoy a few panoramas before reconvening and opaquing the view. Still a nice walk around the flat top (hence the name) to see some of the 4,000+ species of plants and flowers, and the hilarious hyrax dozing or darting around. We then drove around the hilly city, seeing a few places in city center from the bus. The train station (always a dicey part of town) with its 2 entrances during apartheid, one for whites and one for blacks and “coloreds”; the fort; Bishop Desmond Tutu’s church; the colorful Bo Kaap neighborhood; Sea Point Promenade; tony Camps Bay. We did stop at Maiden’s Cove for a misty photo op of the 12 Apostles surveying the shoreline. We can see whales that haven’t yet migrated swimming in pairs not far out to sea.
Beautiful city. Some of the most spectacular urban geography I’ve seen. Up there with Rio de Janeiro and Vancouver. Devil’s Peak, Lion’s Head, covered in a lush green carpet, remind me of Iceland of all places. Unlike New York, mostly immaculate; streets and neighborhoods appear nearly completely litter free. Lots of interesting architecture, from modern to colonial creole to deco-inspired Miami Beach. However, most buildings were hidden from view behind walls, gates, electric fences, with prominently-displayed signs warning of the security companies protecting them, offering camera surveillance and “armed” response. And oddly, no pedestrians, even in very lovely-looking and walkable neighborhoods.
We reboard the ship for our last evening on the Splendor, which was all but ruined by a nasty Whatsapp encounter with a family member about ongoing, unresolved business. Spent our final night on board with me miserable, making phone calls, negotiating, and not dancing to the live Beatles music at the party on Deck 4.
The usual disembarkation day chaos, saying goodbye to freshly-made friends, drinking coffee, waiting. And just like that, we’re out of the bubble and back in the real world. It’s raining.
Dangerous Beauty
Looking for our taxi, dragging our 1,000lbs of luggage through the cruiseport, we encounter Ray, an MSC chef on his cigarette break. He gives us a few pointers about Cape Town: Go with a guide. Don’t walk on your own at night. Avoid downtown. “The gates and electric fences everywhere keep the wild animals out. There are lots of wild animals in Cape Town, jackels, lions, baboons. Except they walk on two feet, not four.” Oh. This confirms a lot of what we’d read and heard: that Cape Town is currently one of the world’s the most dangerous destinations for tourists. Robberies, car-jackings, attacks, stabbings, muggings, even murder were way up during the last few years. We find our Uber and drive to Sovn Experience, our BandB in the tony Camps Bay neighborhood, check into our spacious room with balcony and narrow sea view, have a coffee. It’s a crap day; we take our time settling in. Thomas wants to get cash, so we venture to V&A Waterfront to exchange his dollars for rands. Basically a big modern American-eque shopping mall with great people watching. So many faces of so many colors. Very fashionable crowd with influences from the four corners of the globe. We finish what’s left of our gift buying, making the most of a crappy afternoon.
The weather clears before sunset, so we venture out on foot to the Camps Bay waterfront, a 15 to 20 minute walk from our accommodations. Except for a dog walker or two, Geneva Street is deserted. Shocking, considering the glorious sunset over the southern Atlantic unfolding before us. Anywhere else in the world, a place like this with a view like this at this time of day would have been filled with pedestrians strolling, enjoying the sea breeze and free light show. The few people on the street don’t even look up as they pass.
We reach Victoria Road. Very Ocean Drive. Lots of young hotties, expensive cars. We check out the beach. A mix of races frolic at water’s edge. Despite the inviting-looking water, no swimming here: the waters of the Southern Atlantic are pretty nippy, the riptides dangerous, the sharks plentiful and hungry. We score a terrace table at Surfshack, drink cool drinks and eat seafood and enjoy the setting sun … After dinner, we’re a little apprehensive about making the trek uphill to the room. Geneva Street is deserted except for some cars, and us. We take our chances and return to the room on foot, relax on the balcony for a bit, then sleep.
Cape of Good Hope
Full day tour down the Cape peninsula. As per instructions, we arrive a bit early and board the bus in front of the Bay Hotel. It’s big, new, and empty. A text arrives and asks where we are. “On the bus in front of the Bay Hotel,” I reply. Turns out to be the wrong bus. We find the BazBus white van - not a bus - not in front of the Bay Hotel about a block away. Last to arrive, we get the worst seats in the back with no window next to a Muslim family of five with a sick child. Great.
A spectacular drive along the west coast highway. We stop in Hout Bay for those taking the boat ride to Seal Island. We opt out and shop and drink coffee in the fishing town. Next, Chapmans Peak for a panoramic photo op of the bay below and peaks above. We cross over to the east side and ride along False Bay, known for its shark population and riptides, past a few historic towns. Stop at Boulders Beach to see the colony of adorable endangered African Penguins (formerly “Jackass” thanks to the eeee-yor sound they make). The flightless birds, the only penguins found on the African continent, probably arrived from South America. Almost wiped out when European sailors began using their meat and eggs for food, their fat for fuel and lubricant, their guano which they need for nesting for fertilizer; pollution and civilization further decimated their habitat. Fortunately the colony is now protected, and they seem happy and healthy despite humans gawking at their cuteness and beautiful beach home. Back in the bus to enjoy more postcard-perfect coastline, home to vast stretches of kelp forests teaming with life. “My Octopus Teacher” was filmed near here.
On to a drive through the Cape of Good Hope Nature Reserve, a protected park home to thousands of plant and flower species unique to the peninsula, as well as enormous kudu, ostriches, and baboons who may descend on your vehicle and steal your snacks. We have a nice lunch, and check out the Center’s beautifully-shot video presentation on ancient and modern man’s origins, which probably, like Lucy in Eastern Africa, began here.
Cape Point and Cape of Good Hope next. We climb to the original lighthouse, out of commission as it’s frequently shrouded in fog and its signal actually confused sailors off their course and to their death on the rocks. (Fortunately it’s been replaced by a newer one lower on the cliff.) But what a view. You can see an eternity of blue, endless sea, endless sky, the curvature of the earth. Next we hike down, across Diaz Beach (named for the Portuguese sailor who “discovered” the area), over and up the hill to the Cape of Good Hope. On top of the bottom of Africa!
Our drive took us to many of Cape Town’s diverse neighborhoods, from multi-million dollar homes of stars like Elton John, Will Smith, Leonardo DiCaprio and Matt Damon to fishing villages to the toney wine region and haute cuisine restaurants of Constantia to former naval bases to an artist colony and farms to shanties and favelas and “informal settlements” where lots of poor people live behind fences in cramped encampments.
So much beauty, so much strife.
Back to Camps Bay for another sunset walk on the beach and delicious seafood dinner – I had a brick of rare tuna, he had the dover sole. After we again walked back to the BandB, sans incident. Except that every time we passed a black man on Geneva Street, we tensed up and quickened our pace. Hyper vigilant, taking seriously the warnings we’ve been getting from social media and visitors and locals alike. Or maybe we’re a little bit racist – ?
Our last full day in Cape Town, we decide to do a hike up Lion’s Head. In the past few years, there have been too many serious attacks on tourists, notably hikers, at knifepoint and at gunpoint, on and around Table Mountain, the Pipe Track, especially at sunrise and sunset when the light is stunning and temperatures perfect. It’s Sunday, mid-morning, and our hotel contact assures us we will be safe. We Uber over and start our ascent. So far the climb is manageable, with magnificent views of Table Mountain, the waterfront, Camps Bay. Plenty of hikers around. About 1.5 miles in, things change. The top is steep, rocky, narrow. There are warning signs, “Climb at your own risk”. We give it a go. The path narrows, and I’m hit with a severe case of vertigo. We abort before we have to climb using the ladders and chains provided to reach to tippy top.
We look for another hike in the vicinity, but Thomas would like to check out the Rhodes Memorial, not realizing it’s quite far and not appealing for Uber drivers. We negotiate with our driver to stay while we visit, which doesn’t take long. Though big and imposing, with a commanding view of its environs, the site is underwhelming and poorly maintained. Apparently protests took place here in the 2010s when people began to rethink out loud Cecile Rhodes’s contributions to, and exploitation of, the continent that made him such a wealthy and influential Brit.
Our driver drops us at Bo Kaap, the colorful Malay neighborhood you visit by day and avoid by night. We were advised to “stay away from the cemetery” because of gangs and drugs. So we did. Oh, the irony: The cheerful, pastel-painted buildings reminded me of Burano. A bit. Large Pro-Palestinian, anti-Israelis murals neighbor colorful galleries featuring the work of local artists. Again, the best and the worst of us, not only in black and white, but in brilliant technicolor.
I love this place – geographically, architecturally, it’s easily one of the most beautiful cities I’ve ever seen. Many neighborhoods much cleaner and better maintained than the best neightborhoods in New York, or, for that matter, anywhere in the US. There’s a dynamic food and wine scene here, with dishes such as hake, ostrich, springbok, kudu - exotic for us - plentiful and fresh and affordable everywhere. But I do not feel safe. I do not feel free. I cannot walk or bike around town here – distances between neighborhoods are too far, too hilly, accessible via busy highways, not pedestrian/bike friendly. I’m used to sidewalks filled with strollers, paths filled with bikers. One must drive (on the wrong side of the road!) or Uber around. And one must watch one’s back. You want to do and see so much, enjoy the views and sea breezes, but feel hemmed in and vulnerable.
Or - have we been jaded by pre-conceived notions we adopted during our internet research and informal chats? I don’t know. But I do know that this is an extraordinary city in an extraordinary country.
We return to Camps Bay for a dip in the pool, packing, a final sunset walk on the beach, and our last dinner on the strip. Thomas’s stomach has been a bit dodgy today so he doesn’t drink. Another bout of La Tourista (mine hit in Venezia) which is worrisome, as we leave at 4am to go to the airport for Johannesburg and Kruger National Park for the final leg of our adventure – an African safari.
Safari Land
Kruger National Park
Day 1
Taxi picks us up at Sovn 15 minutes early. Flight on time, bags arrive, airport pick up waiting. We’re joined by two ancient women in wheelchairs, apparently fellow guests at Tembo Lodge. They take forever to get in the van. The one with serious mobility issues, Mary, is charming and interesting; she just can’t walk. The other, Stella, never stops talking, is 7 minutes behind everyone, always waits to the last minute to buy something/go to the rest room, is neither nice nor charming –
The ride – through gorgeous hills, farms, plains, forests - takes 4+ hours including a snack/bathroom break and non-stop commentary by Stella. We will share our safari jeep for the next 3 days. Oy.
We arrive at Tembo Lodge – charmless, in an uninteresting town (Hazyview) except for the cattle walking freely around on the streets - dump our things in our room, and set out on our afternoon safari. We wait for the octegenarians to show up and slooooooowly climb into the van …
We head to Kruger National Park, a 7,576 square mile nature preserve – bigger than New Jersey! - one of the largest in Africa. Incredibly, it’s surrounded by a protective fence to keep the animals in and away from “civilization,” and keep the poachers out. Our guide Given, Gives for short, has a lot a patience with Stella and her dumb requests and dumber questions. (For some reason she’s obsessed with termite hills.) Mary has worked in Africa and studied animals, so she not only has interesting commentary, she’s an excellent spotter. The guides know most guests are here to see the Big 5 – lion, leopard, elephant, water buffalo, rhino. I spot the first elephant, Mary spots a leopard in a tree. Very exciting. Gnus (or is it wildebeest?), kudu, a warthog mama and her adorable hoglets. Full frontal of a hippo in a low riverbed. Not great views of giraffe and zebra; we will have these tomorrow. The park is lousy with graceful impala and cute vervet monkeys frolicking. Another hightlight: an iridescent dung beetle deftly rolling a large ball of poop up what for him is a huge incline on the side of the road. Sisyphus-like. Not bad for a first afternoon.
We go to a grill in “town” for dinner. A surprisingly good meal of local trout.
Day 2
Full day safari starting at 5:30am. We’re on time, but Stella isn’t. Mary is tired and decides to take a lie-in today, so we have Stella all to ourselves. Oh, joy. Our safari starts with a few rhinos leisurely lounging under a tree. The Park started filing down their horn to make them less attractive to poachers. There’s still a strong market for rhino horn, which is made of keratin, an unextraordinary substance similar to a finger nail or a hoof. The Chinese and other primarily Asians believe rhino horn increases virility and sexual performance and has other magical healing properties, so demand remains high despite international restrictions on its harvesting and sale. Gives tells us poachers break into the park from neighboring Mozambique to the east, which shares a 300+ mile border with the Park. (Damn foreigners! Another example of the “it’s not us, it’s them” syndrome infecting every country, everywhere.) Apparently poaching was so pervasive and deadly to the endangered rhinos that the Park Rangers now have a “shoot to kill” mandate. An elephant arrives; the enormous beasts warily ignore each other … Next, we missed the hunt, but we’re watching and listening to 2 male lions devouring a warthog they just killed as their “brother” looks on, not daring to try to get in on the breakfast of bacon; we happen upon a lone young male elephant masturbating with his trunk and using his enormous erection – it could have been a fifth leg! - to scratch his belly when he sees he has a jeep full of spectators; a couple of elephant families with babies (can’t get over how protective mama-phants are, one not only puts herself between us and her baby, she stares us down threateningly, raises her trunk and trumpets at us to back off; another leopard, aways hard to spot especially on land, as she skulks into the bushes in her gorgeous coat; a hyena family dozing in a pile under a tree (if you didn’t know better, that they could and would tear you limb from limb, you’d swear they were adorable puppies); giraffes bending over, waaaay over, to take a drink; a few ostriches; another dung beetle, this one struggling, to roll his ball of poop and his dung beetle bride up a hill…
We have dinner of delicious hake at the unattractive lodge (Tembo could really benefit from more local arts and crafts on the walls and around the property) cooked and served by a sweet lady working alone. We kill a bottle of sauvignon blanc. Nature seems to have inspired us; despite the heat and fatigue, we can’t keep our hands off each other -
Day 3
Another full day starting at 5:30am. The ancient ladies join us in the morning before we drop them off at the gate at 10am. We wait as a herd of water buffalo surround us as they cross the street. Up close and personal, they check us out with suspicion and ennui. It grows hot as the day progresses, and nature seems to tuck in for a siesta. We drive around, see more of the geography of the park, lush hills, enormous boulders, but little wildlife. We head back.
Our last supper in South Africa will be at the Grille again. We try the springbok carpaccio and more of the local super light, super cold beer, Castel Light. Not bad at all.
Day 4
We have a new guide for our morning safari. Muzi. A new American octogenarian couple limp into the jeep, also late. Not so much as a “hello” or “sorry for the delay.”
Muzi is less loquacious than Gives but he tries hard to find us some leopards and lions. We did spot a lovely lioness in the distance at a watering hole; we could hear but couldn’t see her cubs … We return to the same scene later, as rumor had it the lioness was stalking water buffalo for lunch for her cubs. But the herd took action, encircling their young at water’s edge, as reinforcements arrived in droves and strengthened their line of defense. The lion queen didn’t stand a chance; lunch would have to wait.
Now cabbing it to a Johannesburg Airport hotel for a shower and dinner before we board our 16 hour flight, departing at 22:00.
A five hour ride, around verdant mountains and fields planted with trees and crops I can’t identify. Stunningly beautiful. Reminds me of Umbria, Italia or Marlboro, NY near Emmanuel’s house. Hours and hours of green hills that eventually flatten into green plains. We ride with Isaac, the driver who took us to and from the Grill last night. A nice, simple man from the Free State province. He wants to chat with us about his country and his people, the Sotho, and explains a bit of his faith to us. How one must bring an offering to one’s ancestors at the holy burial place when one has a problem or a question, or when one needs advice or a blessing. As with other native peoples on the western and southern African continent, one can access God only through one’s ancestors and/or through a medicine man or woman. I explain that we can talk directly to God; a good place for us to do this is in church. Thomas clearly does not have the patience for this.
The ride is pleasant and uneventful. We arrive near Johannesburg, and the landscape changes. We see some “informal settlements”, more folks loitering on the street. We start to talk with Isaac about the problems facing his country: political instability and corruption, high unemployment and lack of opportunities for young people, petty and violent crime, drugs, gangs, racial tensions.
Isaac offers that much of the country’s crime comes not from South Africans but from undocumented people who enter South Africa illegally. They have no papers, no address, no job; they are hard to keep out and harder to capture.
Seems everywhere in the world has an immigrant problem. At home, in Italy, in South Africa, seems we are not the cause of our country’s problems; “they” are.
I remember back quite a few months ago when Thomas’s agent offered him this African itinerary. I remember that he and I looked at each other, and nearly simultaneously said, “I think we should take this trip.” When would we ever have an opportunity to experience such a diverse itinerary to so many far-flung destinations, traveling in such luxurious conditions no less? Probably never.
Which I hope is not the case. I hope to take more safaris, ride the dunes of the Kalahari, visit Yusufa and his family, explore other quartiers of Cape Town, see the smiles of the school children in their uniforms, buck up and face the darkness of our shared past at the slave ports. Thank you thank you thank you. For the eye-opening experience. I will never see the world in the same way again.
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