2008 Christmas in Africa, Stellenbosch
Our ride to Stellenbosch is in the largest and most comfortable bus yet. The road takes away from the coast into the hills and vineyards of one of South Africa’s most renowned grape growing regions. We pass the Klingklop brandy distillery and the Robertson Winery, names we have become strangely familiar with after such a short stay.
Our driver is as good as his door to door word and having driven around lost for a while and with the help of our guide book, eventually drops us off at out backpackers hostel. This backpackers is friendly, relaxed and has a good sized garden for tents. It also has backpackers who like to talk loudly way beyond midnight and we hope our early morning noisy movements wake them up prematurely and leave them feeling tires and bleary eyed for the rest of the day.
It is just a few days before Christmas and the lights are being officially switched on. The manager gives us directions. “The quickest way is here,” he points to a map. “But if you feel unsafe come back this way as there is more traffic.” Stellenbosch is the second oldest European settlement and the colonial architecture is splendid. The town square, nestling between 2 churches, is large, bordered by trees and decidedly French in feel. The many strings of lights are hung ready between the trees, and a metal tree covered with lights stands at the centre of the park.
Crowds have begun to gather and sit on the grass listening to a loud band on a lorry stage at one end. As the sun slips down behind the trees, the band mercifully stops, giving way to the usual, interminable speeches from local bigwigs. After only a short while the amplified speeches are competing with a hum of background voices. I look around. Everyone is talking to his neighbour. No-one, apart from Georgina and myself is listening to the longwinded speeches. Nevertheless, they drone on incessantly. Complete darkness comes with a growing sense of anticipation. Soon the speeches must finish. Someone flicks a switch and the square is illuminated by thousands of coloured lights. The effect is amazing and for the first time we feel a little bit Christmassy. Sirens wail and the blue, flashing lights of several fire engines appear down the street. The power surge has set something alight already? A white bearded man in a red suit and hat is waving from the first vehicle. Surely, this is our cue to depart? We slip away as the procession circles the square and heads for the central tree. Maybe they are going to string up Santa Claus?
We are just a stone’s throw from Cape Town. Forget the minibus taxis. We could go by train from here. “Travel in daylight and make sure there are others in your compartment,” we are advised. From what we have heard, on-lookers merely provide an audience for an attack. You would be very lucky if anyone intervened to prevent one to even to staunch the flow of blood pumping from your wound. The station on the edge of town is old and dilapidated. A few people hang around following you with their eyes. There is no timetable and no indication when or if, trains ever run through here. I suppose the African way is to turn up and wait for the next train whenever that may be, hours, days or weeks. The people are predominantly elderly. They have probably been waiting years. No-one knows when the trains run. In the end someone hazards a guess that it might be at lunchtime the following day. We decide to take a minibus taxi.
Loaded with all our stuff we head out the next day. “The taxis are just up this road,” says a helpful, but less than convincing, passer-by. We trudge on. Two miles later, we ask someone else. “It’s just up there.” “Just,” in this case can be translated as 10 miles. We see a rusting chunk of metal on a piece of waste ground. This is our taxi that will take us to the outskirts of Cape Town. Feeling as though we have already walked there, we squeeze into the minibus taking the last of the seats and sit around roasting in the sun for at least six more people to arrive. There is always room for just one more. This is the bus where the driver takes six attempts to shut the sliding door and it is the worst taxi so far. We don’t mind, we are on the last leg of the journey to Cape Town, the end of the line. As the driver crunches the gears and the minibus wheels begin to turn we begin to pray.