Monday brought the promise of new
adventures. I'd lived in PE for five
years and had visited Grahamstown on a number of occasions, usually during the
National Arts Festival. This, known
colloquially as the Grahamstown Festival, is the biggest celebration of the
arts on the African continent, Africa's answer to the Edinburgh Festival. It had already taken place in July, though,
and I was on a different quest. In the
interest of being a tourist, I'd purchased the Lonely Planet's guide to South
Africa, Lesotho & Swaziland.
Here I learned of the existence of the International Library of African
Music. Founded by ethnomusicologist HughTracey in 1954, Ilam was located in this university town, 130km north of PE.
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I hopped in the car shortly after breakfast,
dropped my luggage at Kevin's, which was en route (I would be gone for two
days and needed only a small bag), and made tracks for Rhodes University in
Grahamstown. Whereas in Mpumalanga and
the Western Cape, country roads were punctuated with jaw dropping, dramatic
mountains, the Eastern Cape was adorned with gently rolling hills. This was especially true as I traveled
beyond Grahamstown.
Arriving at Rhodes, I stopped in the wrong
location and was directed back down the badly pot-holed road. (These roads reminded me of those in Lusaka,
Mombasa and Kampala - truly African crumbled paving.) I could not see any sign indicating Ilam, so I parked and
proceeded on foot. At the Faculty of
Law, they said I was close, to go down the narrow passage beside their building
and ring at the electric gate. Here I
spotted a student and he said that this was in fact Ichthyology. He did not know where Ilam was. Back out I
went. I asked at a different building,
and they again directed me to Ichthyology.
This time I went into the building that stood beside the electric
gate. Eventually, they directed me out
the back of the fishy building and there stood the International Library of
African Music!
How glad I was that I hadn't given up! Here I met an interesting lady, perhaps the
head of the department. She imparted all
kinds of information about what they did, pointed out the head statue of Hugh
Tracey above a bookshelf, and encouraged me to purchase publications and CDs
from the same bookshelf. As she spoke,
other employees busied themselves around us.
When she was called away, I chatted with the receptionist. Although she did not come out and say it, I
got the distinct impression that the first lady was not well liked, and
the receptionist contradicted some of the information I'd received. I paged through a few publications and
settled on the one I'd buy. Understanding
African Music is a student's book, containing lessons on the various
aspects of music from the continent, complete with exercises to practice the
techniques, and a DVD containing 96 tracks of pieces from all over the
continent, lovingly recorded by Hugh Tracey.
The DVD also has three video clips.
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Then I wandered about their small but
remarkable collection of instruments.
There were all kinds of music-makers, and I was enthralled. As I ambled, clicking away with my camera, a
rehearsal or jam-session was taking place behind a door. Soon the door opened and out walked a man in
his late 50s or 60s. (I found out later
that he was in fact already 79 years old!
My goodness!) He came over to
chat and it was wonderful to speak with someone so knowledgeable. After a while he asked my name and I in turn
asked his. Here I stood, shaking the
hand of Andrew Tracey, son of legendary Hugh.
Andrew is himself a respected ethnomusicologist, and I was thoroughly
honored to be meeting him. Despite his
great name in these circles, he was nevertheless personable and it was a great
joy to be speaking with him. He invited
me to watch a small concert he and the other musicians who'd just been
practicing would give within the hour.
At first I was interested, but two concerns stopped me. Firstly (and this is the reason I gave), I
was expecting to continue to Hogsback, some 200km further north, after which
I'd have to return to Port Alfred, where I'd booked accommodation. Secondly, I'd heard them practicing and their
idiom is not one I fully appreciate - it's an interesting mix of jazz,
traditional African songs and township pop.
Interesting, but for me, not very moving. I bought my book and went on my way.
From here, my grumbling
belly guided me to an eatery. It was not
outstanding, but it filled me. While
sitting there, I realized that making it to Hogsback and back to Port Alfred
this afternoon was not feasible. I
elected to leave Hogsback for Tuesday and made my way directly to Port Alfred. This 60km stretch took me
through very beautiful lands I'd never seen.
PA is a preferred holiday spot for Rhodes students and PE businessmen
alike, but for some reason I'd never made it there. The country roads were in good condition, but
they relented into the worst pot-holed suburban roads I'd seen so far. Despite this ground-level decay, it was clear
that PA was a rich man's play town. The
harbour held numerous vessels, toys of businessmen who holidayed here. At Portofino Guest House, I was advised not
to drink the tap water, as it was brackish.
TV reception was also unreliable, but I was not here for that. Sadly, there was no waterfront stretch of
restaurants. I took a drive around town
anyway, and along the river stood some well-appointed homes, one of which
reminded me of the Southfork Ranch of Dallas fame.
I found a butcher and slipped in to buy some
biltong to illegally take back to Taiwan.
I ordered R400's worth since Jess and Alice had asked me to bring them
some, too. The slicing and vacuum
wrapping was done at a sister butchery just out of town, and I drove there to
pick up my supply. How astonished I was
by the chunk they'd prepared! This place
was clearly much cheaper than any other, when I think of how much I got for R40
in the Kruger Park, for example. There
was no way this would fit in my bags and my luggage would be overweight
again. I took only 3 bags of it, one of
beef biltong and two of nyala. I didn't
anticipate that back in PE the next day, it would be necessary for me to give one
bag to Kevin since it was impossible to fit it all in.
I went to bed early,
and early the next day made my way northwest and upward in elevation. Hogsback is a Bohemian settlement in the Amathole Mountains of the Eastern Cape. I'd heard
talk of this town when I was a student.
A selection of gay couples had upped and left PE and settled there, and
it always sounded interesting and other-worldly. But I'd never made it here in those
years. Today, I wound my way slowly up
what became increasingly curvy roads, and this cheap car did not handle
well. Occasionally, I passed a troop of
baboons or a couple of swine, here some ponies, there some cattle, all foraging
beside the road and posing a real danger to motorists. This is the new South Africa. I had been worried that the roads might be
snowy - Hogsback gets snow during the winter - but the weather was in fact
quite toasty.
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Reaching the top of the
mountain and the quirky town, I dismounted and took lunch. The area was very beautiful, but here, as
indeed in Port Alfred, it would have been better to share the experience. After lunch, I started my descent. Along the way, I came across a gathering of
goats huddled beside and on the tarmac.
Somewhere along my route, I pulled over to have
a cigarette. A little way off to my
right, two herdsmen were walking their cattle in the same direction I was
driving. I waved a friendly hello, to
which they responded. I got the
impression though that they were considering coming over and taking advantage
of an unsuspecting tourist, and indeed after a few short moments they turned
and started towards me. Immediately I
killed the cigarette, casually got back in the car and sped off. Nearer Port Elizabeth, I passed the Addo
Elephant Park, and I did consider going in.
What stopped me was that I knew there was not enough time to enjoy it
properly. On another visit, perhaps.
I pulled into Kevin's to pick up my bags, and
then made my way to Mill Park, whose King George's Guest House would be my last
accommodation of the trip. En route from
Bluewater Bay, I'd already plotted to exit the freeway at Albany Road. Having not lived in PE for 22 years, I
misjudged the off-ramp and crossed a solid white line. No big deal.
Except that a traffic officer was driving the car ahead of mine. He pulled me over and told me what my
transgression was. I explained that I'd
not seen the dotted line, and he said that I should then have continued to the
next off-ramp, that my driving had been dangerous. I humbly apologized and produced my temporary
driver's license upon request. He then
asked if I was new to PE and I said that I'd be leaving the country the next
morning. He said I was lucky that he'd
decided to let me off with a warning, or else he'd have to drive me to a police
station to ensure that I paid the R1000 fine.
I gushed my gratitude and brought my hands together, a mixture of
childlike penance and appreciation.
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King George's was lovely. Wooden floors lay beneath plush
furnishings. Even the bathroom floor and
indeed the floor of the spacious shower were wooden. A retro bathtub completed the splendor of the
lodgings. I took a long lie in said
bathtub and continued to read my novel, THE 100-YEAR-OLD MAN WHO CLIMBED OUT THE
WINDOW AND DISAPPEARED, by Jonas Jonasson. He is the author of another
delight called THE GIRL WHO SAVED THE KING OF SWEDEN, which tells the story of
Nombeko Mayeki, a girl born in Soweto. I
stayed lazy until evening, when I'd have a last supper with Kevin and
family. We went to Two Olives close to
where I was staying, and the meal was fantastic. A splendid way to end a long and wonderful
holiday!
Next morning I dropped the car at Avis, took
Mango to Johannesburg, where Quintin met me as planned. He would not allow me to go to the gate too
early, and in the end I had to jump the queue at passport control and then run
to the plane. Phew! Made it!
It appears that not a single employee of Emirates is Emirati. Our cabin crew hailed from six different
countries, and the pilot sounded Kiwi.
The flight from Johannesburg to Dubai was smooth, and once there I was
able to take a shower in their facilities.
Between Dubai and Taipei, we experienced turbulence most of the way, but
I was thrilled to actually manage some shut-eye, despite determining not to
take the sleeping tablets given by my doctor.
I did, however, cough and sputter all the way because the cold that I'd
caught in Cape Town had not yet cleared.
