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This is one of those places I’ve only ever imagined visiting – Kathmandu, Cape of Good Hope, Galapagos Islands. Those far away places mentioned in books. Places that conjure up romantic ideals of travel: beautiful sunsets, open spaces, clean air, deserted areas.
Upon arrival to Cape Town, the weather took a nasty turn. Dark clouds crowded the once clear skies. The two attractions I had my heart set on seeing, Robben Island and Table Mountain, were closed because of the weather. I understood why Robben Island was closed, the water was choppy and could make transport to the island treacherous. But Table Mountain? How do you close a mountain? The concierge assured me that yes, the mountain was closed. “I’m only in Cape Town for two days. What else would you suggest?” In response to my enthusiastic inquiry, with lackluster, he pointed to a rack of brochures.
I perused the brochures lined up ever so neatly in the racks. I’m not a particular fan of organized tours, but I wasn’t up for renting a car and driving on the other side of the road (I’ve almost gotten hit several times because I look the wrong way before crossing – no need to introduce a motor vehicle into that equation…) I glossed over the pictures. I didn’t really want to go to the wine country. I wasn’t in this part of the country for long enough to do a safari.
Cape of Good Hope? Really? For some reason I had not connected in my mind that Cape Town and the Cape of Good Hope were close. But of course. I leafed through the brochure. The half-day tour was scheduled to leave at 1. I looked around, trying to figure out what time it was. The large, nondescript clock behind the check-in counter told me it was 11:30. I asked the concierge to book me on the tour.
Soon thereafter I was in the van, along with other Americans, English, Germans, Moroccans, Italians and French, all on our way to the Cape of Good Hope. We stopped along the way to view a penguin colony (incredibly happy with the wet weather) then wended our way over narrow curvy roads, stopping in a parking lot nearly at the end of the earth. I took the tram to the top, relishing in the strong winds and fresh mist that whipped my hair about my face. I climbed the hundred of stairs to the top of the lookout, peering over the edge that gave way to perilous cliffs, ending at the Cape of Good Hope.
Or so I thought. It wasn’t until I had taken loads of pictures and was on my way back down to the tour bus that I realized I had been taking pictures of the lookout at Cape Point, and not the actual Cape of Good Hope. Sigh. Oh, tourist attraction. Foiled again. With only a few minutes before our allotted meeting time at the bus, I meandered around until I found the actual Cape, snapped a few shots then continued on.
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My first memories are of dinner parties. People in fancy clothes, beehive hairdos, heavy rimmed glasses, clinking crystal, laughing between bites. Church potlucks – long wooden tables covered with flimsy white plastic laden with casseroles and gelatin salads and overcooked vegetables and potato salad and fried chicken and… And tables and tables of people laughing and joking and calling each other hon’ and darlin’ and sweet pea.
Food = social.
Except when you’re on a business trip by yourself in the off season in Africa.
The first several days I was here I couldn’t face the thought of going out to a restaurant by myself so I instead consumed the energy bars I had packed in my carry-on in case of hypoglycemia on the plane. It’s Day Four and I’ve run out of energy bars.
I looked out the window. The rain was sheeting against the window, causing the buildings in the distance to waver and sway. Could I just go to bed and wait until breakfast to eat? For some reason eating breakfast alone doesn’t bother me. Eating dinner alone does. I checked my cell phone. 18:54. Let’s see, subtract 12, 6:54. Oh, criminy. I can’t go to bed at 7 pm.
I bundle up, grab a book and my purse, and take the elevator downstairs. I stand in the doorway, mesmerized by the rain. I can’t do it.
I turn around and walk towards the hotel restaurant. I ask to see a menu and study it. Meat, meat, and more meat. I’m craving pasta, but craving warmth more. I ask to be seated. “How many?” She asks. I look over each shoulder. There’s no one else nearby. “Just one, thank you.”
I sit down and spread the white linen napkin in my lap. I look around the restaurant. There are seventeen open tables, me, and two older women with bleached hair and long red fingernails sharing a table in the corner.
My waiter approaches me with a wide, beautiful grin. “Hallo tonight. How are you?” I smiled, said I was well, and asked him how he was. “So well. So well. I’m Daddy and I will be helping you tonight.” I suppressed a smile, noticing that his name tag did indeed say “Daddy” and nodded. He offered to bring me water, while allowing me a few moments to look at the menu.
When he returned, I ordered the petite ostrich fillet with a side salad. “And for your starch, miss?”
No starch, just a side salad.”
“But you are having meat. Would you like mashed potatoes, potato wedges, or a baked potato?”
“I really don’t want potatoes.”
“You must order a starch. You are having meat. You cannot have meat without a starch.”
“But Daddy, I don’t want a starch.”Did I really just say that?
Yes. I did.
Undeterred, he continued. “You must order a starch with the meat.” Realizing I would not win this one, I conceded. “Okay, Daddy, please bring me a baked potato.”
Satisfied, he jotted the order, grinned, and walked away.
A long while later, he brought my plate: ostrich fillet, salad, and baked potato. I chewed my ostrich then took a bite of baked potato, lightly salted. Mmmmm. That was good. Damn good. Thanks, Daddy, for insisting on the starch.
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My first thought was that it looked like Epcot. Silly American.
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…Is a surprisingly lovely city. Especially after spending the night, tossing and turning, on an eleven hour flight from San Francisco. I’m en route to Johannesburg, seemingly the longest flight in the world (I’m sure there are others, but right now I’m not on them). When I checked in at the Lufthansa desk for my boarding pass for Frankfürt to Johannesburg, the agent handed me the paper, routinely pointed out the gate number and boarding time, then halted. “Whoa. You’re not boarding until 22:10 tonight. That’s a long layover.” I nodded and smiled. Thanks for pointing out the obvious. My plan was to work during my 8 hour layover. That was all good and well until I sat down and realized I had packed my international, everywhere in the world converter in my checked luggage. I had a few hours left on my computer battery. Lovely.
I worked for a bit while sipping an exorbitantly expensive Diet Coke. (I asked if I could pay in US dollars, she said yes, then quoted me the price in Euros. The dollar’s not doing so well these days.) There must have been a shift change, because a young waiter approached me, asking if I needed anything else. I asked him how long it took to get into town. He assured me not long, we were very near the train station, the trains run every 15 minutes, the next one comes at 5:02. Without meaning to, laughter tumbled from my mouth. How is it that he knows the *exact* train schedule? Oh, yes, we’re in Germany. He wrote down the line I should take, where to get off, what to see.
On the train a surprising number of people were drinking bottles of Beck’s beer. I looked around. Were they selling beer on the train? Where could I get a Beck’s?
I watched as people got on, got off, talked to each other, read, stared out the window. I arrived at the designated station and got off. I emerged from the underground station. Sun! Light! Fresh air! A welcome change from the confinement and stuffiness of the airport. As I looked around, my first thought was “This looks just like Disney World.” I immediately checked myself. OMG. I’m comparing a beautiful European city to Disney World. Silly egocentric American.
The museums had closed; the churches had not. I entered several as I wandered along my route to the river. Beautiful, vaulted ceilings welcomed me. Austere saints stared down at me from stained glass. Severe wooden benches offered a place to sit as I calmed my thoughts and contemplated my upcoming weeks in Africa. I walked along the riverfront, watching boats gracefully slice the waters, sailing under bridge after bridge after bridge. I settled at an outdoor beer garden for a leisurely supper. I watched the bicyclists pedal home from work, briefcases slung over shoulders or attached to racks on back. Businessmen in suits and ties surrounded me, talking loudly and laughing over steins of amber ale.
I began my walk back to the train station. I passed by shop girls closing shop, locking locks and walking away briskly, ready to start their evening. The evening was still light, even at 8 pm. As I neared the station entry, I heard music. An outdoor concert, perhaps? Why was this strange? I listened more carefully. The singing was in English, not German. That’s what was strange. I had adjusted to not understanding and suddenly I could understand. I looked closer. “Jüden für Jesus” was emblazoned in white block letters on navy shirts. Nice. A Jews for Jesus rally. In Frankfurt. I made my way down the stairs, prepared to navigate the ridiculously punctual German train station back to the sterile Frankfürt airport.
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I didn’t realize how quickly one could fall in love… Oh, hammock, my lover…
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The Panama Canal is fascinating. Absolutely fascinating. We arrived in the morning, when the ships line up on the Pacific side to transverse eastward through the canal. We watched two huge boats move through the Miraflores locks, three sets of contained waterways that gradually increased the level of the boats.
As we were watching a boat enter the canal, I said to Cris, “Why didn’t they just make this a river? They could have just dug out the land, made a river, and called it a day.” An English couple standing next to us scoffed. The lady turned to me, and looking down her nose said, “That would have flooded the entire Central American land mass. It would have been complete and utter destruction. The Atlantic and Pacific are at different levels, you know.” Without thinking, I exclaimed, “How did they know that?” She and her husband exchanged looks. Oh, you simple American. “The engineers did studies before they began the work.”
I turned to Cris. “It’s a good thing I wasn’t in charge of the Canal project. I would have just started digging.” He laughed. “But honey, you would have made sure the workers had a damn good 401(k) plan….”
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“Hey, do you think I need to bring my passport?”
Little did I know the answer to that simple question would determine our fate.
A pause, then, “No. I’ve never needed mine. Probably safer to leave it here.”
And with that we were off: Alex, a Panamanian citizen, Cris, an American living in Panama, and me, an American visiting Panama. As Alex navigated the narrow cobblestone streets of Casco Viejo, Cris offered, “I think the fastest way to the Causeway is through Chorillo.” Alex protested. Chorillo wasn’t safe, we should take the longer route through the better neighborhoods, we didn’t want to be in Chorillo after dark, but Cris persisted. We drove towards Chorillo.
After ten hours in transit, I was finally in Panama. I welcomed the hot, humid air that blew across my face, curling my hair into tiny brown ringlets. I was far away from email, from computers, from work, ready to relax with friends and enjoy a week of beaches, sun, and carefree living.
The car stopped, I looked up to see a policeman outside of Cris’ window. He asked for our ids, we all pulled out our wallets and passed laminated cards to him. He examined Alex’s id card, nodded and returned it. He looked at my CA driver’s license, as well as Cris’. He studied them, turned them over, then put them in his pocket. Hm. Not a good sign.
Machine-gun Spanish was exchanged. It’s been a while since I spoke Spanish on a regular basis; I understood about every fifth word. It sounded like Cris and I were being arrested, but I was sure I misunderstood. Those other four words had to be terribly important.
The policeman motioned for us to pull over on the side of the road. We did. We sat. No words were spoken. A few minutes later, the policeman came back. This time I understood. He was asking for mine and Cris’ passports. Cris explained they were at home, but we weren’t far away, so we could go back and get them. No, no, no. The policeman seemed to think he couldn’t let us out of his sight. I listened from the back seat, still happy to feel the warm, humid air coming through the window.
At some point, I realized we were being arrested. I looked at Cris. “Seriously?” He nodded. We got into the police vehicle. It was a relatively comfortable police van. I leaned back, happy to be on vacation. I figured we would be taken to the police station, fined, and released. Alex, meanwhile, had hurried back to the apartment to try to find mine and Cris’ passports. Cris asked the police man which station we were going to. “Chorillo,” he replied. The look on Cris’ face indicated that wasn’t a good answer.
As we drove the buildings became shabbier, the streets populated with more stray dogs and loose women. “Hmm,” I thought to myself.
We entered the police station. I was the only hint of estrogen to be found within miles. To our right was the sole cell, populated by about thirty young men. Around our feet scurried mutli-legged creatures, cockroaches, ants, unknown insects. A single light bulb burned overhead, hanging from a tentative rope. We walked up to the captain’s desk, me in my sandals and strappy sundress, Cris in his pink polo and plaid shorts. The men in the cell pushed up against the bars to get a closer look at us. I whispered to Cris, “I don’t know if they’re jonsing for you or for me, but I sure don’t want to find out…”
The captain asked us several questions, and wrote down our names, addresses, citizenship, and passport numbers. Well, Cris’ passport number. When he asked for mine, I responded, “No se.” He looked at me, surprised. “What do you mean, you don’t know?” “I don’t know my passport number.” Well, that raised his suspicions. Why was I in the country? When had I arrived? What did I plan to do there? Where was I staying? When I didn’t know the answers to half of his questions, he was convinced I was in Panama for illicit reasons. I truthfully didn’t care why he thought I was in Panama, as long as he didn’t put me in the cell with the thirty male specimens who continued to eye Cris and I hungrily.
I whispered to Cris, “Where is Alex with our passports?” As Cris pulled his cell phone out of his pocket, he moaned. “Arrrrrhhh. I accidentally turned my phone off.” When he turned it on, it beeped furiously at him. “Seventeen new messages…” Alex had frantically been calling us; he couldn’t find Cris’ passport. While Cris called Alex, I smiled and talked to the captain.
After what seemed like an eternity, but probably in reality wasn’t more than 45 minutes, the captain decided he was done with us. He instructed the lesser ranked police men to take us away. I looked at Cris, “Where are we going?” He motioned for me to be quiet.
Thoughts running through my head:
My apartment is a mess. I would be embarrassed for my next of kin to enter and try to find any of my important documents.
Actually, no one knows where I am. I forgot to send my contact information to anyone. It will be at least a week before anyone even thinks that anything might be awry. Or maybe longer. My parents don’t call that often.
Oh. My desk at work is a mess as well. I hope no one goes through my inbox.
I forgot to send my Grandmother her birthday card.
I forgot to rsvp to my cousin’s wedding.
This really isn’t a convenient time for me to die.We were taken back to the police van. “They’re taking us to the tourist police station,” whispered Cris. This sounded promising. The buildings slowly became better taken care of, the streets lighter. Presidential palace guards stood at attention. We instructed the police to drive to the front of Cris’ apartment building where Alex was waiting with our passports. The policeman took them from him without words and drove Cris and I a few blocks to the tourist police station. The walls were freshly painted, a photograph of the employee of the month hung on the wall. The captain there smiled and spoke with us jovially, as if we were meeting for cocktails after work. He examined our passports, meticulously copied each piece of information, then returned our passports and licenses to us. We stood there like sentries. “That’s all. Have a good night.”
We walked into the warm air. Alex was waiting for us. Stunned, we each looked at each other. That’s all? No fine? No ticket? Just two hours of driving us from place to place? We tucked our passports safely into our pockets and headed to the Causeway for dinner, through Chorillo.
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Scene: The Civic Center Farmer’s Market, Sunday morning
As I’m selecting snap peas, I hear one twenty-something baggy jeans, sideways hat, oversized tee wearing Latino vegetable vendor say to another:
“This place jus‘ ain’t RIGHT. It ain’t RIGHT, I say. Where else in America can you buy your fresh vegetables and crack at the same time. Know wha‘ I saying, man?”
LoriLoo 