I first arrived in Cape Town on a container ship in 2001. Nineteen days from London to one of the world’s more impressive landfalls. However, we'd sailed as the September 11 dust settled in New York. News, not sights or even South African wine, was the priority.
All the way down the Atlantic, the BBC's shortwave had been infuriatingly temperamental. Now there were papers: 'NATO gives green light for U.S. Strike' headlined the Cape Times as the Americans prepared for Afghanistan. The DOW was at 8,881.88.
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Eleven years later and, on this trip, twenty-six hours and twenty-five minutes from home to hotel, Toronto to Amsterdam to Cape Town. In bed about 2330. No newspapers on freighters, but space, congenial companions, a swimming pool and zilch jet lag.
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I’m in prison. Well, to be precise, I’m in a hotel that’s part of what used to be a prison. The Breakwater Lodge is a shackle’s throw from Cape Town’s waterfront. Nineteenth century convicts were sent from England to build the harbour breakwater. The hotel restaurant is called 'Stonebreakers'; someone had a droll sense of humour.
A treadmill for recalcitrant prisoners is one of the sights.
Endless steps turned this wheel.
Not your usual hotel leaflet describes it as ‘a cruel and pointless punishment.’ I certainly hope my credit card isn't refused.
Here's one of the old cells.
Here's one of the old cells.
The English convicts probably weren't over fond of Table Mountain, like a vast prison wall, just outside my room. So often covered by a cloudy table cloth, the mountain is clear my first morning.
Three days to get over travelling. A short walk to the port and I'm greeted by what looks to be a giant LEGO man festooned with South Africa's Olympic medals.
On closer inspection, he turns out to have been made with 42,000 Coca-Cola crates. Oh well.
A sign tells me how far I am from home. Toronto isn't listed, but my birthplace, Vancouver, is.
Cape Town has a working harbour, something Toronto, no mean port half a century ago, now largely lacks. At the confluence of two oceans, Atlantic and Indian, no surprise Cape Town's so busy.
One of the dry docks.
I find the former Union Castle office. The line - from England to South Africa - was a key link in Empire's heyday and vital for St. Helena. More of which in another post.
All that's left is a small, curious museum with dim lighting and old display cabinets. The place is thick with nostalgia.
I moon about wondering about these wonderful ships. What was it like to sail on one of the most important (and, for some, luxurious) of the imperial maritime routes?
Exploring museum and harbour keeps me pleasurably awake until a glass of local red, some pasta and bed.
