Kenny Smith | A remarkable thing happens …

adventures / food / Monday / South Africa — Comments Off
08
Jun 26

Eating all the fishes

Slow day today, here in Cape Town. The weather wasn’t the most cooperative, but that’s OK. Winter is trying to roll in here, and the weather has been charming throughout the trip. Seldom do we take a trip, in fact, where the weather doesn’t accommodate the day’s plans. We got rained on one day in Switzerland a few years ago. Two years ago we had some weather happen some diving in Mexico. It’s just going to happen that you get a day that invites you to stay inside.

This is what we did.

We attended a bit more conference. My lovely bride had a meeting at the conference. I sat and read, which was delightful. The rains came in. We went to the spa and got massages. They were quite nice. Not as good as my last one, but also I didn’t feel beaten up after this one, either. There are always trade offs in the muscle moving game. Also, I think I’m getting a bit better at learning to relax somewhere closer to the beginning of a massage than the end. Progress!

We went to dinner at a place everyone who has been to Cape Town told us about, Codfather, in Camps Bay. They say they have an extravagant menu. They do. Their website asks, “Why eat when you can feast?” and, friends, this is the sort of gastronomical rhetoric to which we can all abide.

This is how it works. You make a reservation. You rent an Uber. The Uber drives us over a small mountain pass and into the appropriate place. He tells you to enjoy your dinner. You go inside and upstairs. It’s crowded and every space is filled with tables and chairs and people. It is loud. The few places that aren’t filled with guests are packed full of employees. There is a great hustle to the place, which we haven’t seen a lot of lately and it’s really quite off-putting.

We were stuffed into a little corner besides some guys all pretending for one another that they’d been in special forces. (One of them might have been in the artillery. He yelled loud enough.) The staff comes to tell you what dinner is like. Every table gets the same sides. You can order your drinks at the table, but you must go up to the counter to order your fish. There are a handful of guys standing there, waiting for you. They’re going to guide you through the selection. They tell you about everything they have available.

They tell you about the waters were the fish were caught, local and farther away. They tell you how the waters were there this afternoon, when your dinner was hoisted from the sea. They tell you about the personality of the mother of the man who brought the fish to the shore.

You go through all of the cases like this. It takes several minutes, because they have an extravagant menu. And if you aren’t perfectly attuned to the guy, or if you are somehow distracted by the din of the place, you’ll miss something important, like what was playing on the radio in the truck that brought this food to the store. Once you’ve gone through all of the cases you tell the guy what you want. He repeats this to a man behind the counters. And he’s smiling in an overly friendly way. It’s loud enough that some things need to be repeated, and this new guy is smiling all the way. And then you get to pick the particular pieces you want, and that man is now smiling like a maniac.

We ordered what seemed like enough food, and then got what seemed like a little bit more. Something about the entire process makes you forget yourself, your inhibitions, your idea about what’s right for two people, and the entire notion of what anything costs, because you have no idea.

But food here is either reasonable or entirely inexpensive. And tonight’s meal, which turned out to be both a lot of food and precisely the right amount, somehow, was inexpensive. Also, it was delicious. Go to the Codfather. I’d go again.

After dinner we walked down the hill and around the corner because it was time for …

Caught an Uber back to the hotel to address our things. Tomorrow is our last day here, but we still have a lot to do.

adventures / history / photo / site / South Africa / video / weekend — Comments Off
07
Jun 26

Robben Island

The human spirit sometimes offers us two rare gifts. One of those offerings is a simple recognition of its largest capability, something which is difficult to understand. The rare willingness of the spirit to be overruled by the heart is the ultimate gift of self-possession. The capacity to look at what has been visited upon oneself, and to see beyond it, is a remarkable thing. It is selfless and it is with great intention, a promise to oneself. I will free myself from that which would imprison my nature, if not my body.

You see it from time to time. You see it in wonder. Often at its core is a willingness to offer forgiveness or understanding. Religion, insight, the bigger picture, they all have something to say about this. So does Modise.

He was a political prisoner at the notorious Robben Island. Now he is a guide on the island. He lives there, at the place where the state once held him, and he tells his story, and the story of the other prisoners, and the centuries old place. He bears the scars of his torture. He shows some of the physical ones, and talks of some of the mental ones, and that is only a part of his conversation with his guests, but certainly not all of it.

I realized, too late, that I should be taking notes of all of the things that he said, and so I don’t have a complete recitation to offer you. To try to share parts of it seems, somehow, insufficient and not to say inappropriate for what it would lack.

For years, Modise had a view of walls and barbed wire and the quarry where he was worked. He was incarcerated because, as a student, he stood for for racial equality. As an elder, he talks about forgiveness. Reconciliation. Understanding. To Modise, hating the people who held him here, to foster the bitterness of youth and nurture the anger of his jailtime would keep him a victim. He’s come to see that everyone he encountered, even the warders, the people that ran Robben Island, were all victims of apartheid.

The human spirit is full of wonder.

Modise rode with us on a bus around the island. We saw a lot of the buildings from the road, the quarry where the prisoners worked, the inmate cemetery, and the parts of the island that the prisoners knew nothing about. He dropped us off with another guide for a walking tour.

Have you ever been on a tour where guests hugged the guide at the end of the tour? I have. Today.

We had heard, of course, that Robben Island was a trip to take. You go out by ferry and follow the group along on a guided afternoon. We had heard that, at one time, there were a lot of the former prisoners giving the tours. That’s hard to contemplate. Wouldn’t you want to get as far away as possible? But people told us that this was the way to have taken in the experience, but that there were fewer and fewer of them giving tours today. The personal first-hand experience was becoming more rare. I asked Modise how many still gave tours. He said about a dozen. Then, he sent us inside to see the facility itself, as guided by another former inmate.

One of the mass cells.

There are holes cut into the walls, for light, but there were no windows, so the weather was unavoidable, no matter the weather. We were there on a pleasant, if gray, day. This was not, we are told, a comfortable place.

Our second guide had a great big booming voice. Rattled in your chest, bounced off the cement walls, came back to rattle your teeth. He talked with his hands, forever dancing, no matter if it was a moment of seriousness, or one of his well-trod jokes. The sleeves on his jacket, rubbing against his chest and stomach as he moved from the elbows, were his accompaniment, and all of it in this same, steady rhythm.

There’s a spare courtyard and along the back wall sits this tree. And our guide said that Nelson Mandela, who was a political prisoner here for 18 years, buried his autobiography behind it while he was writing it. It was smuggled out out of prison, and on to London. And I’m staring at this tree when, a week ago, I was at another prison that held Mandela, and at his home, staring at a tree that he planted and trying to remember the bit I have learned about trees in the local cultures, the epicenter of food, shelter, law, memory, trade, medicine, art, identity, the place to anchor your home, the place to hide your story.

While Mandela was here for 18 years, our first guide was here for five, but their time did not overlap. Our second guide was here for a bit longer, and he was here during some of Mandela’s later time. They slept on straw mats. They did hard labor. They were physically and verbally abused. Over time, some conditions marginally. How a prisoner was classified dictated what few privileges they might receive, even down to the number of guests or correspondence. In the late 1960s prisoners were given pants, an upgrade from the shorts they’d previously worn year-round. In 1973, somehow, Mandela managed a bed in his single-occupant cell. It was behind this lock.

Through these bars. And if you’re wondering if that paint was chipped by fingers and nails, you aren’t alone.

I lingered behind the group, staring at those bars, and it took a bit for it to register that this was Mandela’s cell. He lived in this 8-foot-by-7-foot space.

This was the end of the tour. You walked down the last of the corridor, away from those individual cells, and out into another hard, gravel courtyard. Our guide was standing at the gap in the wall, trying to count his guests. I told him I was not the last person out, there was one more guy behind me. I stopped and talked with him for a moment. Shook his hand. Thanked him for telling his story, for keeping this story alive. He smiled and pointed, “And now you can take your short walk to freedom.”

I stood and watched him walk across the front of the place, back to where he picked us up. A lone elderly gentleman, head down, strong shouldered, doing this thing he’s done for who knows how long. I wondered how much longer he would do it. I wondered if he was one of the men he talks about in that clip above. I wondered if I was right, when he told that part of the story, when I thought Simply another kind of political prisoner. I wondered what that meant. I wondered how many more people would get to hear these stories from people who had lived it themselves. I wondered about the rare moment of history that we are sometimes afforded like that and what is lost when that moment passes as the eye-witnesses and participants and survivors pass from us. I wonder about that tree.

Almost by chance, as I walked back toward the ferry, I saw these statues in the distance. We were being urged to hurry, and they were too far away to see. But I have since learned that they were in stalled last September. They are likenesses of six of the former political prisoners here. They are, Khotso Seatholo, Andimba Toivo ja Toivo, Robert Sobukwe,
Nelson Mandela, Krotoa, and Autshumato.

All but the last statue were produced by Cristina Salvoldi.

We took the ferry back to the mainland. The ride was just long enough for darkness to fall along the waterfront. (This shot will join the banners on the site one of these days.)

You come off the ferry, down the ramp, up some stairs, down some stairs, up some more stairs …

And into the night. We had dinner near the waterfront, smelling of dead fish and whatever the sailors next to us were smoking. It was one of those where you try to finish before you lose your patience, and before the rain returns. Also, there was a shuttle to catch back to our hotel. We got the last one back, for a late night in.

adventures / photo / South Africa / weekend — Comments Off
06
Jun 26

Touring more of the Western Cape province

We visited a 17th century winery today. This is part of the inner-workings of the famed Fairview Winery, which began in 1693. Think on that for a while.

This, they tell us, is where the magic happens. Grape juice goes in here and sits and does some stuff and so on.

The mixing, the fermentation, the initial aging of wine. I’m not sure that I realized there were different stages to the aging of grape.

This is far more interesting, far more romantic. Those stainless steel tanks are manufactured somewhere. Probably by machines, maybe brought by aliens. But artisans made these barrels. Or, at least, they once did.

I assume there are still coopers in South Africa doing this work by hand. I follow a guy on social media who still does this in Europe. He’s almost the last of his kind there. What will we do for barrels when this craft disappears? Who will help the wine industry? Or the repurposed wine barrel industry? People buy these from wineries when they are exhausted, having given their last to years of grape juice, and they become planters, or centerpieces of homes and businesses. Oh, the stories they could tell of the grapes they have known. Good seasons, bad seasons, random people taking a photo and walking away, never pondering this process from acorn to tree to saw to cooper to Fairview.

And while this place has been at it longer than the United States has been a country. (Or South Africa, too, for that matter.) They are also known for their cheeses. They produce all of this right there on the farm. We saw some of the goats.

Some of those cheeses were outrageous.

Wine labels are the most interesting thing. It’s an art, in that some are just there, some have a style that works for the viewer or drinker (or both!) and some just look like they are trying to hard. Here, I was amused that the catalog was broad enough to allow for all different sorts of artwork. This is just festive and evocative. It is a place you’ve never been, perhaps can never go, but suddenly you want to be there.

Classic color scheme and iconography, full of memories and long days and longer nights.

The standard issue label. Just stylized black text on a cream-white sticker. But the back tells the tale. Someone thought so highly of this batch they named it after Ma.

That also means that somewhere, in those rooms with the tanks and barrels, every so often someone has to give a sample a try and decide whether the new effort is also worthy of her name.

We went over to Stellenbosch, which is a college town and also a wine town. Established at the end of the 17th century, it has a population of just under 80,000 people. It’s 30 miles from Cape Town, and the glimpses we saw make it feel like a universe unto itself. Charming as can be. This is the Moederkerk (Mother Church) in Stellenbosch. It is the second oldest congregation of the Dutch Reformed Church in South Africa, and it traces its roots back to the 1680s.

Here’s an accidental photo I took of my lovely bride. Wasn’t even aware of this thumb clumsiness until I started editing these photos.

And we stopped in one store in Stellenbosch and this gentleman was telling the story of his town, his tribe, and his life. He was also offering little sips of this 15-year-old brandy. Nice fellow, I liked most of the composition here.

And if you like this sort of thing, too bad. I don’t think they’re shipping to the U.S. at the moment.

We had a lovely day. The sun was out. It was mild, but warm, but noticeably not summer. Winter has been trying to work its way into the region, and will get here soon enough, but this was a brilliant day to be outdoors, reveling in the sights and sounds, and thinking about those cheeses and wines.

adventures / food / Friday / photo / South Africa — Comments Off
05
Jun 26

ICA presentation

Today was a conference day. My lovely bride once again had research accepted at the International Communication Association’s annual conference. My job was to sit and nod sagely, and also to take some photographs. I took some photographs. Her paper was on … well … the title slide does some explaining.

She used a screengrab from a BNL video. She was very proud of the idea. It was funny. I’m not sure how many people caught the reference. To be fair to all parties, that’s pretty niche, and the crowd was also a bunch of specialty scholars. The overlap might have been just three or four people.

It was another fine paper, and a good presentation. A few years back she won a top paper award at this conference. She’s a big deal.

And the conference is, too. Global affair. Security at the doors looking at badges, for some reason. I like going to conference sessions, but I can’t imagine anyone wanting to sneak their way in. I’d sneak my way in but, again, pretty niche.

We had dinner tonight at a fancy steakhouse. It was pick-your-cut kind of fancy. But the prices were in-line with an American meal. If they said this was the best steak in town, I’d believe them. I also think every other place does a great steak, because there’s an incredibly passionate meat grilling culture here. Bo-Vine in the City is surely one of the touchstones of the commercial part of the food culture. We’d definitely go back, and certainly recommend it to others.

adventures / conservation / photo / South Africa / Thursday — Comments Off
04
Jun 26

The African penguins

After the day’s earlier stops we made our way down to Boulders National Park to see the colony of endangered land-based colony of African penguins, one of only a few in the world. There are three beaches, three boardwalks, and this viewing area. It doesn’t seem enough, but it is a lot. We had a limited amount of time there and it seemed like not enough. As lovely as the rest of the day has been, I found I wanted less of that, and more of this.

The first full census in 1956 counted some 150,000 breeding pairs counted. Half a century later, the number was down to just 26,000 breeding pairs left in the world. This colony was established by the birds in 1983, and in over the next few decades the breeding numbers here increased, but have dipped this century because of habitat destruction from pollution, oil spills, overfishing, and global warming.

These are now the rarest species of penguin. The numbers have dipped so precipitously that we’re now in the projected window of their extinction.

These are the only penguins in Africa and Asia. They weigh up to seven pounds. pink patches above the eyes and the black mask are distinctive. The little spots on the white chest are said to be helpful for identification.

The African penguin’s coloring is called countershading, where the bird is darker on the upper side of the body and lighter on the underside. It’s about camouflage against predators and prey. They make loud braying noises.

These are pursuit divers, meaning they swim at the fish rather than dive at them. They don’t dive at them because they, of course, don’t fly. They feed primarily on fish and squid.

Experts are vying to close broader ares to fishing, meant to help with the birds breeding. South Africa decided to go another way, but lawsuits followed, and the government holds a constitutional obligation to prevent extinction of an endangered species.

Last year, the government reached a settlement established a set of larger and full-time no-fishing zones around six key breeding areas. Maybe that will help.

When they’re out looking for food, the penguins wive up to 82 feet, staying submered for more than a minute. The maximum recorded dive was 430 feet, and the longest was for over four minutes. It is not clear, to me, if those were the same dives. Or if that was an issue of the foraging. Because the fish around them have changed, fewer sardines, their diet is also changing. Now they’re eating more anchovies. Not ideal, perhaps, because of the mass and the nutrients and the subsequent downstream impact on their breeding.

These are monogamous birds, and the pairs return to this same site each year. The breeding season around here is from March to May, when a pair of eggs are laid. Both parents take turns with the incubation, which lasts for about 40 days. They’re guarded by one of them for about a month, and then they get sent to bird day care, hanging out with other chicks while ma and pa are foraging in the sea.

The average lifespan ranges between 10 to 25 years. In captivity they have lived to 34 years. They have predators on land and see. They seem to do better when they can breed in burrows or nest boxes, because they’re better shielded from land predators.

Because they don’t need a very cold enviroment, African penguins are a commonly seen species in zoos across the world, often kept in outside enclosures. They’re also pretty adaptive and tend to breed comparatively well in captivity.

The general plan seems to be to create a backup captive population, while also aiding in conservation in the wild. (So breeding improvements, more protected areas around the colonies, etc.)

And so we’ll end with this, in one three-year period during the teens, American zoos put more than a quarter of a million dollars into in-the-wild conservation.

Let’s keep that up. The little chick that this penguin is looking after could use all the help it can get.