Go West (where the skies are blue)

The Return of the Cape Crusader                                    

Have been in Cape Town for almost a week now, and this is what we find:

It’s been a hectic week, compounded by a group preponderance toward total paralysis when it comes to any sort of decision-making or consensus-building.  Everyone is passive-aggressive, and no-one wants to assert any sort of preference for any alternative presented.  So we end up discussing which museum is the most interesting until they’ve all shut for the night, or pull over by the side of the road to discuss which direction we should take until the sun sets.  It all seems very busy and crowded, but nothing much is ever actually accomplished.

Oh, and information control is an issue.  It’s a bit like something out of Commedia Dell’arte or “Three’s Company.”  No one really says the entire situation to anyone else, and all confusion remedies are garbled, mumbled, misunderstood, or grossly misinterpreted.  Rather than say “we’re going out for dinner, we’ll be back after eight,” people would rather say “we’re not sure what’s going on, please don’t make any arrangements.”  This dissatisifies everyone, and clarifies nothing.  All plans suddenly become tentative, and no plans ever come to fruition because there is never consensus, so the people who were trying to make contingency plans are unable to have any impact. 

So there you have it.  Clear as mud.

Megamegamcmuffin

Stopped by Cavendish Centre (big shopping mall) for breakfast.  Apparently, McDonald’s in South Africa has something that Canadians don’t enjoy – the MegaMcMuffin.  In a nation that has just been afflicted by the Double Down, someone has taken the EggMcMuffin, Sausage McMuffin, and Ham McMuffin and wrapped them all up in one big colossal and architecturally unsound tower of muffinness.   My blood’s LDL increased when I saw the picture.  I hesitate to venture what it looks like after I consumed one.

Flight of the condiments

Incidentally, the least-attractive thing about the breakfast monstrosity that attacked my circulatory system was the ghastly tomato sauce.  For some reason, South Africans don’t understand the concept of ketchup.  Or catsup.  Even at McDonald’s, where ketchup is used for transfusions for medically uninsured minimum-wage employees.

Instead of the concoction that first-worlders enjoy, with puréed onions, salt, vinegar, sugar, and a host of mysterious other ingredients, South Africans get tomato sauce that contains… tomatoes.  And precious little else, including flavour.  I’m not a big fan of ketchup, but I’m downright opposed to ketchup-esque slimy red scum that looks a bit brighter and shinier than it ought to be.

Oh, and thanks to Elizabeth Brits for the word of the week.  The word of the week is:  hectic.  I had no idea how versatile the term could be.  It can be fairly applied as an adjective to a sequestered American congress, an unreleased Disney film, a pool game between two women wearing chequered flannel shirts, or a particularly tasty spoonful of soup.

Simon Says Town

Unusually for our merry band, we actually went for a drive around the peninsula south of Cape Town.  Some lovely beaches and landscapes.  Oddly enough, the really curious incident occurred in a little place called Simon’s Town.  Simon’s Town has a pleasant naval base with training vessels and large numbers of very snappily-dressed sailors (male and female) moseying about amongst the tourists in the sunshine.

As my travelling companions milled about amicably, nibbling on foodstuffs and visiting the public toilets,  I went looking for a milkshake.  It was a hot day, I was thirsty – it seemed harmless and appropriate.  Sure enough, a rather jolly, friendly Boer fellow popped out of a restaurant called The Quarterdeck and asked me if I’d like to see a menu.  I responded that I was simply looking for a milkshake.  Within seconds, an eager black lad had teleported in front of me with a menu.

“Mint.”  I said.

“This lad,” said the Boer fellow, gesturing to the vapour trail where the black waiter has been, “makes the best milkshakes in the Western Cape!”

“Oh, I’m sure.” I replied.

“Where are you from?” asked the man, taking a step back.  I responded that I’m Canadian.

“Oh!  Oh!”  he yelped.  He turned and started to shuffle inside the restaurant, squeezing past the bar, the hallway leading to the toilets, and down a narrow corridor. “Al-something!  Al… Al… Albequerque?”

I followed him through the door, turned right, dodged a waiter coming from behind the bar in the opposite direction.  The Afrikaaner guy was standing in the corridor, hunching towards a world map tacked to the wall. 

“Alberta!”  he finally blurted, poking at the map.

“Yes,”  I said, sidling closer and pointing to Edmonton. “Right there.”

We went back outside, and he explained at length how he talks with all of the tourists, and he’s made it a hobby of trying to pick their geographic spot of origin from their dialects.  Apparently, asking a black American woman if she is from Louisiana or Alabama is an awful idea if that woman happens to be from California.  He received a torrent of abuse on that occasion.  After chatting for a couple of minutes, he asked me what I did for work.  I mumbled something about IT and Oil & Gas stuff.

“Libran,” he declared.

“I’m sorry?” I replied.

“Your astrological sign.  Libra.”

“Oh, erm… no.  I’m a Scorpio.”

A number of things flashed through my head.  If one considers that the galactic equator has shifted since the creation of the original horoscope, and that there are in fact 13 signs of the zodiac according to the International Astronomical Union, then within the definitions established by sidereal astronomy, I’m technically a Libra by date of birth.  Of course, I also have a tendency to over-analyze things, though I can never remember which zodiacal sign is associated with that characteristic.  Is that a symptom of forgetfulness or just a complete disregard for bizarre and unscientific explanations of behavioural psychological phenomena?

“… and you would need a more creative space to express yourself,” the restauranteur was finishing.  I made affirmative nods and murmurs and collected my mint milkshake from the obliging and helpful waiter.

It was an odd exchange, but there were other strange interactions to come.

But it’s lunchtime and I can always continue this later, can’t I?

Cheers everyone, and good night England and the colonies.

—mARKUS