24 Hours in Cape Town
When we entered the Cape Town airport parking garage I got my first glimpse of Table Mountain. This extremely geometric mass of land bearing down on the Atlantic Ocean, caressing Cape Town serves as both protector and guide. When I lived in Cape Town for a semester study abroad program nine years ago, the mountain told me the time, weather, and direction. What colors are the Mountain shrouded in? Purples and blues? It must be evening. The coat of clouds hangs across the Mountain’s shoulders, it must be a misty, cooler day. How much longer on this train until I arrive back at my host home? Look at the mountain, when only half is visible we are halfway, when it disappeared I was almost back home.
Returning to this city after almost ten years away, I immediately returned to being guided by the Mountain. I strode across the fourth floor of the parking garage to the railing, drawn to land, to look through the opening in the concrete structure for a clear view of Table Mountain. I breathed in the sounds, the smells, and the sights. I breathed and felt the past and present collide.
The last time I arrived in South Africa was not ten years previously, but four years previously. It was not Cape Town I was in, but the northern part of South Africa. I arrived at O.R. Tambo International Airport with two suitcases for two years with the Peace Corps. I spent three whirlwind months learning Xitsonga, drinking Savanna Dry ciders, burning my fair skin in the thinnest of ozone layers, and preparing to be a Community Health educator in a rural village nestled against the Zimbabwe border. My days with the Peace Corps ended suddenly when COVID hit. I was quickly evacuated back to the United States, back in the Johannesburg airport 23 months earlier than planned.
I was forced to cut ties, say goodbye with no return date, and abandon the dream of an extended stay in South Africa. Leaving felt like leaving a chunk of me behind. And with that, I never got to return to the city of Cape Town that was the setting for pure living when I studied abroad.
Back to the present day.
As I exited the parking garage in a van packed with a bunch of teachers and luggage for an educational exchange trip, the Mountain began playing hide and seek, coming in and out of view as we journeyed closer to the heart of the city. Upon entering my hotel room, I threw open the windows and there it was again, Table Mountain. We only had 24 hours in this city which left an indelible mark on me, and I feared it would not be enough.
We had lunch and shopping at The Old Biscuit Mill, a place that lives in my memories as an immersion into the millennial milieu of the city. There were handicrafts made of beads and the smell of biltong and phrases of Afrikans and Zulu swirling through the open-air market inhabiting a literal former biscuit mill. We went to Bo Kapp, a neighborhood famous for its colorful houses but better known to me as the place where as an impressionable 19-year-old I visited a mosque and dined in the home of a Muslim family, learning intimately about the apartheid era from people who had lived through it and the hatred many Muslim families experienced post 9/11. Our group drove up the winding road to Signal Hill, providing panoramic views of Table Mountain, Lions Head, and hang gliders running off the edge of the hill into the open air to float above the sea.
We walked Signal Hill, taking in the views. I removed myself from the group, walking down a path to get a better look at Table Mountain in the late afternoon light.
There are many things I will never understand about the time I have spent in South Africa. Like how a place can feel so foreign and so much like home at the same time. Like how I have been drawn back to this country again and again—but, never to stay. Like how I can look at Table Mountain, one of the most horrific mountains I’ve ever hiked, and only remember the feeling of standing atop it, wind stinging my face and feeling absolutely free.
As I stood alone before this mountain that is a postcard image, a Microsoft wallpaper, a behemoth so often reduced to an icon that fits on a sticker, I wondered if I’d ever return here again. I considered teaching and the double-edged sword of summers off and summer travel prices. I considered my new husband and puppy I’d left at home to be here. I wondered if I’ve given enough back to this place that has given so much to me. I realized I was no longer young and unencumbered with choices and options and time. So the likelihood of returning to Cape Town seemed to shrink before my eyes. And for some reason, while this filled me with sadness as big as the eminence of land that commands the rhythms of Cape Town, I also was ok. I was ok because I was leaving more clearly aware of the beauty I had beheld for more days than I deserved in the Rainbow Nation.
I stood from the bench I had taken up residence on, looked at the Mountain one more time, and said goodbye to the multifaceted, unintelligible, resounding beauty that is South Africa. I walked away, the mountain behind me, leaving this time on my terms
