Number four- day one

After writing for an hour yesterday morning I walked away from the cafe thinking- I shouldn't have drunk all that coffee, I need a wee now and more importantly (although not to me at the time) darn! There were a few things I forgot to mention. So, I resolved there and then to open each page with the things I forgot from the day before. But guess what, I can't remember them. I did write them down in my trusty note book in which I record my thoughts, well some of them and experiences- but I forgot to bring it.

Anyway, I did leave my all singin' all dancin' wash bag in DTL's hotel room and spent an enjoyable hour replacing it and it's contents (eleven quid but as they are consumables I can still use them if I get the bag back) and also I forgot to say how clean African countries are. Obviously because there is so much cheap labour about, book stores can afford to have ladies dusting the books on display. I'm not saying it's right but the result is very nice.
So, the afternoon trip to Robben Island- prison to Nelson Mandela and his closest friends- well they were by the time he got out. I aimed to get the 2pm ferry and arrived at the terminal for 1340 only to find that the next available places were on the 1700- and with a 3 1/2 hour round trip I didn't fancy it in the half dark. The weather was very gloomy with low coastal cloud and only just comfortable in T shirt. I became vaguely aware of a commotion at the adjacent ticket desk and saw a large black lady becoming very 'excited' and vocal. It seems that she had purchased tickets for the 14.00 sailing but members of her group had failed to show and the ticket desk refused a refund. Ah ha- fate presents opportunities and it's up to us to take them. I offered a solution to one of her problems and gave her face value for the ticket without much interaction. It was a better feeling when she told her friends and they congratulated her on her fantastic saleswomanship (for you politically correct types- non correct types, yours is coming). She took their praise and I joined the queue.

The ferry trip out was marred by a bunch of middle aged Canadian women who shouted above the roar of the engines endless inane babble (how their kids are doing at Uni, their favourite breed of dog etc, etc) and the fact that the seating was so cramped I had trouble assembling the components of a cheese and tomato bagguette between my knees. I eventually succeeded but the result was similar to my waking up in the park but with crumbs around me rather than leaves. We joined the throng on the tour bus and a very well worked tourist machine. The guide was excellent with lines like, "do you know who Steve Becko is?" all shout "yes", "do you know who Nelson Mandela is?" reply "yes", "do you know who Mkebe Ntosi is?" reply "noooo". "Well thanks a lot, I introduced myself just 5 minutes ago!"- I guess you had to be there. And really that's what it boiled down to, I had to be there and so, as I learned, did the prisoners!
Second part of the tour was of the prison block, including Nelson's cell. Our guide did 6 years with Nelson and the whole thing was pitched like they had been thrown in there for belonging to the ANC or printing some political leaflets or acts which would have any right minded person calling their incasceration (with 4 hours a day allowed them for political debate amongst themselves) 'oppressive'.

It later transpired that chummy had been arrested by South African security forces having spent 2 years in an Angolan terrorist training camp-( he called that 'living in exile') and returned to SA to blow up a building. He pleaded not guilty and it was with utter surprise that he was convicted on the evidence of his co-accused. This revelation caused murmurings around the room- his former toilet block so it echoed a bit. Essentially the Brits saying- sounds like he deserved to be here, you can't go round blowing people up. And the Americans (sorry guys but you know I'm telling the truth) saying "well I hope young people of today's SA realise the sacrifices he made for their freedom- six years of a young man's life, that's a shocking waste" Yeah right!

The ferry returned to cape Town in heavy rain- so a pint was in order, especially because the 'ladies' from Victoria, Canada sat behind me on the way back- doh. It was nice to catch up on all the details on the cat's operation. By the time I finished it was getting on so I picked up some food and caught the bus back from the Waterfront to the city. It was a rough old bus, at 27p the fare was attractive and I didn't feel at all uncomfortable being the only white on board. Everyone was extremely polite to me and each other to the extent that I almost felt they were putting on a show for my benefit- how lovely. A walk through the city from the bus station on a very gloomy, dark night can bring on sinister feelings and is not recommended in the Lonely Planet Guide but I was nodded to or exchanged friendly words with several 'rough types' and got back to the hostel feeling quite pleased with myself for not getting a taxi door to door.

I drank ANOTHER glass of wine, and went to bed.