Hey Rikki, you’re so fine….

I discovered Rikki’s yesterday: they’re basically executive Rickshaws, which can seat to about 6, have a roof, a kind of gate at the back and race round Cape Town picking people up and dropping them off. You ring them up, they tell you how long it’ll be (so far no more than 5 mins) and they take you door to door for a fixed price, which seems to be at least 70% less than a cab. I’m setting up Rikki’s Oxford on my return. I’d get a photo, but they’re there and gone in a blur.

Oh, and I visited Robben Island and went up Table Mountain-as I was a little worried I might miss out on one or both, this was a good day. And the weather was glorious.

I don’t think you can or should say you enjoyed going to Robben Island; I am pleased I went though. Of course, the trip was not without its lighter moments. 10 minutes after the boat set sail, I suddenly remembered Zoë’s advice. She’d told me (in black and white) that the trip could be rough and to watch what I ate before going: it was then I realised I could come to regret bolting my late country breakfast (top combo of scrambled eggs, mushies, halloumi and toast) in order to the make the boat. Fortunately, the old Dutch sea legs (and some pretty calm seas) avoided any Mr Creosote eruptions. It was to prove a day for forgetting things.

Robben island is an experience that’s difficult to put into words: to say it was sobering sounds glib and doesn’t convey the emotional impact. I think the impression I am left with at the moment is that of awe at the dignity of those who went through a truly foul incarceration: I am sure it is something I will reflect on as time goes on and my response will find greater breadth.

Sparks guided us round the prison-he had spent 7 years in Robben for his ANC involvement. There were no beds, no windows and just 3 blankets each (1 to sleep on, 1 for a pillow and 1 to sleep under); conditions were poor and worse if you were black; 80 men shared 3 showers; petty regulations seem designed to provide an excuse to put you in solitary; the labour was cruel and pointless-in the lime ‘mine’ (no lime was needed) the reflection of the sun on the lime damaged inmates eyesight and the dust their lungs as they moved the lime from one side of the quarry to the other. The following day they would move it back again. The damage to Mandela’s eyes was such that no one taking his photo is allowed to use a flash. Through all this, it seems they kept their spirit and their politics.

He described how many of the guards had returned to the Island and they were now friends; many political prisoners were well educated (unlike the guards) and they helped guards to university degrees while still incarcerated-a beginning of the reconciliation process, even before the end of apartheid; the dignity of the prisoners in their ‘reunion’ photos brought a tear to the eye. He even finished with a joke-‘Thank you, you are now released’; it was poignant if you were there.

He seemed totally devoid of resentment. I was repeatedly left thinking ‘would I have been able to do the same?’. I’d like to think so, but until tested I could not be sure-it’s a test Sparks should not have sat, and one I hope I don’t have to.

One of the biggest shocks was how beautiful the island is and the amazing view of Cape Town and the mountains. As we sailed back to the mainland, we were accompanied by a number of dolphins; it was horror and beauty in some kind of ying and yang relationship. I shall need time to properly process it.

As I said it was a glorious day, and my first chance to get up table mountain. Time was tight, but another call to Rikkis and I was hurtling up to the lower cable station. So, I buy my ticket to go up table mountain, and only 10m from the top of the cable car, which is revolving as we ascend, and I look down into the sudden abyss, do I remember that I am scared of heights. Very scared. And as I step out of the cable car I realise that I am now over 1000m in the air and it’s a lot windier than at the bottom. I reflected on the complete lunatic that was 50m below me, climbing up.

Then I see the bridge



There were several like this, which I had to go across. I was having a good time.

With trembling legs I took the photos (often using rocks to get a stable position) and did my best to fully enjoy the amazing 360 degree view. I got the obligatory ‘John looking pale and disorientated up something high’ photo, which I know will please Statue John.



This shot should have marked the debut of the Jimmy White t-shirt Luke so kindly bought me, but it was a bit chilly in the wind, so Jimmy hid under my top, while I forced a grin. Then, I went to the café for a chocolate brownie to steady the nerves and reflect that Sydney Harbour Bridge should be the next time I have to subject myself to the fear.

I remember on England’s last tour to SA, Sky made David Gower go down a zip line head first off Table Mountain. I found a new respect for him yesterday-a definite first after all that bloody wafting outside off stump (apologies to non-cricket fans). It’d be worth a scan of You Tube to see it again.

Good night last night-in brief Mauro and I hit some bars, found a Danish Begbie (totally shocking man, swore like a trooper, complete psycho in the merchant navy), lost Begbie, met Charlie from Oxford (she’d been travelling for 10 months and I was the first Oxford person she’d found) and I finally got more than Hi out of Kirstin from our hostel-I could barely get a word in, once I’d started her off-so I’m quite pleased she goes home tomorrow and I can return to being the noisiest person about. My rightful position. I’m sure many of you will agree.

I’m trying to work out how much the shadow of apartheid hangs over everything in SA, and how much it is my reaction to SA. The national gallery has no ambiguity: about half the exhibits have an explicit link. For me, the best was the simplest-a photo called The Kiss of a naked couple, one black, one white.

After the gallery, I went the SA museum, which was a little bit like a weak Natural History museum. I got the ticket that included the planetarium: it was interesting, but they should market planetaria to insomniacs. Staying awake was a struggle as the music, commentary and stars soothed me deeper into my reclining chair.

I had a quality afternoon tea at the pricey Mount Nelson hotel. When I say pricey, tea cost the same as 2 nights accommodation at the Cat and Moose. There was method in this flashing of the cash-the food was a buffet, and even without Alan’s big plate, I filled my boots (well sandals) and dinner is not going to be needed after the mix of cakes, sandwiches and fruit salad that I saw off.

Tea was also notable for the most random moment I’ve had so far. A very nice young lady came up to ask me ‘I don’t suppose you’re an amazingly famous writer?’. Sadly (inexplicably), it turned out that it wasn’t a line; though, I took it as a sign (for some future artistic career). Tea was accompanied by a pianist, it was class and the last time I shall do something like that for a long time. As I left, the new arrivals looked perturbed at the sight of me in shorts and action sandals.

Tomorrow, it’s the slavery museum and township visit (I will be escorted, so there’s no John McClaine in Die Hard 3 possibilities). A possibly harrowing day, which I will try to balance with the relaxation of Saturday’s wine and cycling tour before heading out for 2 days in Hermanus searching for Whales. After that it’s Major Plank time (I’m pretty sure that’s PG Wodehouse’s Great White Hunter), as I voyage to Kenya (and presumably go quiet for quite a while).

And finally, imagine living in a beer advert. I hope they get a supply of the sponsor’s product.