A Day at Camps Bay

I journeyed to Camps Bay with Mike and Kim (two of many Princeton friends) this afternoon for a few hours of attempted study on the shores of the South Atlantic. Camps Bay is an exclusive beach town 30 minutes from my apartment in Rondebosch. We took two public taxis, amounting to R12 for the entire fare (approximately $1.20). In Africa, large mini-buses with sliding doors that seat 16 or more passengers make up the base of the public transport sector. Some have five rows of seating with a small aisle or fold-able chair on the side. The mini-buses function with a driver (always a good sign) and a shouter who proudly proclaims the destination of the mini-bus. From my living room, I hear the mini-buses passing by on Rondebosch Main Road all day. The shouters on board the south-bound mini-buses scream, "Wyneburg," and the north-bound mini-buses proclaim, "Cape Town!" Once on board, you pass your fare to the shouter who counts out your change while shouting to passers-by on the street.

The shouters have a tough job. They seek to keep the mini-bus full of customers for the entire length of the route. An empty mini-bus makes no revenue. A mini-bus may leave Cape Town full, but passengers exit at various points along the route by yelling, "Thank you, driver." The shouters aggressively recruit people to take their mini-buses. I was once walking along the sidewalk in the opposite direction of the adjacent lane of traffic. Even though I was walking away from the mini-bus, a shouter tried to convince me I really intended to go to Wyneburg.

Important etiquette governs mini-bus traffic: count out your fare before boarding and watch your pockets. And prepare to be squished. The shouter will fit as many customers into the mini-bus as possible with little regard to your comfort. Additionally, the structural integrity of the mini-bus will vary. I sat on the back row of a mini-bus just this afternoon -- and the row of seats were not fastened to the bottom of the van. At every intersection -- either stopping or accelerating -- we would bounce like a rollercoaster. Remember, TIA. This. Is. Africa.

For today's beach trip, we took a mini-bus from Rondebosch to the central mini-bus depot in Cape Town. We transferred to the second mini-bus of the day bound for Camps Bay. Unfortunately, the ocean water along Cape Town's beaches is freezing. The Antarctic sea melt keeps the water frigid year-round. But the warm air temperatures allowed for a pleasant day on the sand and the ocean provided cool -- and brief -- relief to hot feet and ankles.

Camps Bay itself is nestled below the highway between the western face of Table Mountain and the Atlantic Ocean. The front of Lion's Head -- which I climbed during the last full moon -- marks the north end of Camps Bay and the Twelve Apostles Mountain Range runs along the east and south coast, enclosing Camps Bay entirely between mountains and rolling hills and the chilly shores of the Atlantic. My universe (Rondebosch and UCT) is directly across the mountains from Camps Bay! Not far at all. Clifton and Sea Point are other prime beachfront suburbs that ring the coast and attract thousands of European retirees/pensioners for the mild weather and beautiful views.

I read a few chapters about the Bengal famine of 1943 for my Economies of Feasts and Famine class while noting a few observations:

1. My friend Mike is Chinese. I obviously knew Mike was Chinese before today. But his heritage is important because Mike would not be able to swim at Camps Bay with me during the apartheid regime. Under apartheid racial classification, Mike would be called as a "coloured" and would have to swim somewhere else.

2. I noticed that the family with a dog behind us barked quite frequently. I started to watch the dog and quickly deduced that the dog only barked at black beachgoers. That's right. The owners had to restrain their dog from running up and molesting passing black people. Either the dog was trained to bark at blacks, or he sees blacks so infrequently at home that he mistakes them for danger.

South Africa's troubled and complex history can never be escaped -- not even during a Saturday afternoon at Camps Bay. Needless to say, Camps Bay was classified as a white's-only area during the apartheid era. A dizzying system of pass laws permitted black or coloured labourers (usually from townships or informal settlements) to visit Camps Bay during the day in order to run the shops, clean the homes and maintain the yards of local residents (the same pass laws applied to Rondebosch where I live). Many such labourers relied (and still rely) on the mini-bus public transport routes that we took ourselves.

After a few hours on the beach, we found a brilliant and famous ice cream parlor recommended by many other students (and adults!) called Sinful Ice-cream Emporium. I ordered two scoops of "Very Yummy!" and "Aero" ice cream -- a combination of dark chocolate and a chocolate mousse/malt milkshake for R16 (approximately $1.60). The ice cream lived up to its name -- and with the Pope currently on the African continent, I think everyone could use a little more sin in their ice cream. Mike, Kim and I quietly inhaled our ice cream before taking the mini-buses back to Rondebosch.

While driving down Sea Point's Main Road, I spotted "NEW YORK BAGEL." My eyes grew big with excitement. I must remember to go back and try the bagels.