Authors: Anthony Bidulka
So fascinating in fact were her sagas that my attention was diverted only once, when the Cape Verde passengers boarded the plane.
Cassandra was correct in her guess about the number of addons; there were only three that night. The first two were giddy, beach-blond gals who probably worked at the Sal Island Earls. The other, the last to get on the plane, was a man, so big and burly he barely had enough room to navigate down the narrow aisle of the plane, his head skimming the ceiling of the cabin, his hefty hips brushing against seats as he passed by them. He wore a decidedly non-beach wardrobe of a dark coloured suit and tie and a white shirt, and his small forehead seemed perpetually creased above beady eyes that roamed the faces of everyone aboard as he plodded to the back of the aircraft, as if looking for someone. As he approached where Cassandra and I were getting to know one another, his pill-sized, sinister eyes took a bead on me and never left my face until he moved past our row to his seat somewhere behind us. For the rest of the trip I swore I could feel his gaze burning two holes through my seat cushion and directly into the back of my skull. And I thought a plane hurtling groundwards was an uncomfortable feeling.
Lying at the foot of its most famous landmark, Table Mountain, Cape Town is situated at the southern tip of Africa, on a small peninsula that juts out into the Atlantic Ocean. The city is South Africa’s premier tourist destination, enriched by a unique blend of cultures including Dutch, British and Cape Malay influences. As the massive bulk of our plane floated majestically downwards toward the international airport, Cassandra pointed out the flat-topped mountain and layer of cloud pouring over its sides which, she informed me, was often referred to as the “tablecloth.”
We touched down at two-thirty p.m. to a balmy, sun-filled day and Cassandra kindly offered to share her ride-a private van she had arranged before arriving-to our common hotel. The vehicle’s progress-much of which seemed to take us right down the centre of one of the largest slums I could ever have imagined-was slowed considerably by an influx of thirty-six thousand cyclists for an annual event called 68 of 170
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the Argus (which I’d never heard of, but which Cassandra was quite pumped about) and a damaged bus abandoned on the freeway. But, in due course, the little van made its way into the stunningly beautiful Victoria & Alfred Waterfront area, down Breakwater Boulevard and pulled up in jaunty fashion to the entrance of the glamorous Table Bay Hotel.
I was a little agog at the place and hoped Cassandra-who was probably paying full rack rate-never found out the deal Roy Hearn had gotten for me. Together we followed our bags down a long, fig tree-lined, one-and-a-half-storey, glassed-in tunnel into a massive foyer dominated by a huge spray of sunflowers, a welcoming sitting area and a geometric-patterned marble floor so shiny it appeared to be under a layer of crystal clear, cool water.
Cassandra and I parted ways as we approached the bustling front desk to take care of checking-in details. When I was done and preparing to head for my room, I looked around to say so-long, nice to meet you type stuff, but Cassandra Wellness was gone. Oh well, I thought to myself, it was becoming a little tedious pretending to be the mayor of Saskatoon anyway.
My bright room-a junior suite no less (I love Roy)-was actually two separate rooms-a sitting area and a bedroom-connected by two doors thrown open between them, plus a lovely bathroom. Multiple windows revealed a most astonishing view of the busy V&A Waterfront and Table Mountain beyond it. I took a seat at a small writing table in front of one of the floor-to-ceiling windows and pulled out the Visitor Guide map the front desk clerk had handed me. I quickly identified through the window Quays 5 and 6, Jetty 1, the Victoria Wharf Shopping Centre, Market Square at Quay 4, and the Nelson Mandela Gateway to Robben Island, which I understood to be about eleven kilometres out to sea.
For a moment I allowed the enormity of what I’d just been through, where I was and what I had yet to do, to wash over me in a mixed tide of exhilaration, apprehension and appreciation. Already, I could feel that inexplicable pull of Africa so many visitors claim, and I was happy to be experiencing it.
After a speedy unpack, I fell onto the plush king-size bed and shut my eyes, my body begging for sleep.
But nothing.
No way.
Each time I closed my eyes, my brain went into overdrive.
I was too wired from the long trip. And I was in Africa, for Pete’s sake!
There was one more thing occupying my already overloaded mind. A thing that had been pinching and teasing and toying with the grey matter in my skull for a couple of days now: the woman in the car at the weir back in Saskatoon.
It turned out to be Kelly Doell. Errall’s ex. My high school buddy. The woman who’d left Saskatoon-and Errall-and everyone else-a few years before without a backward glance. She was back.
It was a surreal and awkward moment for me-for all of us, I think-coming face-to-face again in a parking lot. I hadn’t known if I should wear my detective hat or my friend hat, and in the end opted for my babbling inquisitor hat. I had asked about a million questions, each a different take on “Why are you here? Are you staying? Where have you been?” and “Why the hell didn’t you call me?” I had pretty much reached the conclusion that Kelly had missed Errall-go figure-and was back to reclaim her woman (and her dog, Brutus?) when I became aware that neither woman was paying me much attention. I had been a talking head with an audience of zero.
I’d put aside my own insatiable desire for answers and explanations and let Errall and Kelly go off on their own that night; after all, they had a lot to catch up on. Errall was the spurned ex-lover. I was just the lowly spurned friend. The next morning I’d left for Africa with no time to find out more.
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Still, lying in that bed, I couldn’t help but volley about a few possible reasons for Kelly’s unexpected reappearance. Eventually I was interrupted by a niggle from my detective’s brain telling me:
“Quant, forget Kelly. Forget sleep. You’re here. Now get your ass off this bed and get to work.” So, after a refreshing shower and change of clothes, I did just that.
It was still very warm outside but coming onto evening, so I opted for long pants for my trip into town and, hopefully, to Matt Moxley’s home. The hotel doorman did his bit and hailed me a cab and I was on my way. As I dug around in my pockets for Matt Moxley’s address I directed the driver to head out of the waterfront area into the city proper. We had just passed something called the BMW Pavilion when I found the piece of paper. I handed it to the guy and sat back to enjoy the ride.
It was a short one.
The cab driver stopped with such immediate precision, the action jolted me forward in my seat and I narrowly avoided hitting my forehead on the headrest in front of me.
“Whaaaaa…?” I wisely inquired.
“No, no, no,” he explained fully, thrusting the piece of paper back at me and motioning for me to get out.
“What do you mean? I don’t understand,” I protested.
“No, no, no,” he repeated for clarity. His face was half-serious, half-friendly, as if he himself was not sure whether this was all some big joke or a big waste of his time, in which case he’d become all-serious.
I just wasn’t getting what was going on. I took the paper and looked at it but it gave no clue. “Can’t you take me here? I’ll pay you, right?” I assumed taxis worked the same here as they did at home.
“No, no, mister. Out. You get out tonight.”
I get out tonight? Did that mean he didn’t want to take me to the address tonight but would be happy to oblige some other day? Or were we simply not communicating? “Out?” I asked. “You want me to get out of the cab?”
He turned away noiselessly and seemed to be studying the street in front of him with great concentration. I guessed the conversation was over. I got out. The taxi roared away.
Not an auspicious start to my South African investigation.
I stepped to the curb, at the ready to hail another taxi. I held up my right arm, puckered my lips in proper whistle formation, and scanned the oncoming traffic. I waited like this for several minutes. Then a few more. But not a single taxi appeared on the busy street. And here I’d thought the difficulty I’d have in Africa would be finding Matt Moxley. Hell, I couldn’t even find a cab willing to give me a ride.
I consulted the map of the V&A, plotted a course back to the hotel, and began walking. I fully expected that eventually I’d come across the secret taxi hiding place-known only to non-tourists- and continue to my original destination. But no, no such luck.
By time I arrived at the Table Bay, I was very hot, very sweaty and very tired. And a bit crabby. I couldn’t be bothered to make it up to my room, instead plopping down in one of the cushy lobby chairs to bask in the glorious air-conditioning and debate my next move: another cab, shower or beddy-bye?
I was still far from a decision when I caught sight of Cassandra Wellness as she emerged from an elevator. She saw me too and headed my way with a beatific smile. I must have looked like a half-drowned albatross compared to her perky peacock. She was resplendent in a jaunty sailor boy outfit, 70 of 170
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a look as perfect for a fine dining room as for the bow of a scow.
“Russell! Tremendous to see you. What the hell have you been up to?” she asked with an enthusiastic air, at the same time managing to show off a fair bit more cleavage than any good sailor boy would.
“You’re just the person I need to talk to,” I responded after standing to greet her with a peck on each cheek.
“A lot of people say so,” she cracked as she lowered herself into the chair next to mine, encouraging me to follow suit.
I handed her the paper with Matt’s address on it. “So here’s the story: I just tried to take a cab to this location but when the driver saw where I wanted to go he threw me out on my butt.”
Cassandra studied the paper quite intently before looking up at me with a solemn look on her face.
“Why are you going here, Russell?”
I stumbled on that one. Why was the mayor of Saskatoon going anywhere other than a restaurant, bar, nightclub or straight to bed on his first night in Cape Town? This is one good example why the fantasy-life-on-a-plane game isn’t always the best way to go. “I’m looking up an old friend,” I finally got out.
“He lives here?” she asked, shifting her head to one side, scrutinizing my face as intently as she had the scrap of paper with the address on it.
“I think so. At least that’s the last address I have for him.”
“Who is he?”
Now wait just a minute here. This was getting to be one too many questions for my liking. I didn’t really need Cassandra Wellness; I could probably get the help I required at the concierge desk. “Just a friend,” I said as I reached over to retrieve the address which she gave up only after I tugged on it.
“And where did you get the taxi? That can be a very dangerous thing to do in South Africa, you know, Russell.”
I did not know.
“There are still some very vicious taxi wars on certain routes.”
Taxi wars? She said it as if I should know what she was talking about. I was about to ask whether they were anything like
Star Wars
, but stopped myself. It was beginning to dawn on me that Cassandra was speaking of serious things and concerned for my safety, and that these taxi wars were nothing like those at home between Blueline and United.
Cassandra tossed her hair over her shoulders, crossed her arms and sat back in her chair, regarding me like a curious specimen of flora she didn’t know whether she should admire or simply ignore. She nodded at the paper in my hand. “That address, it’s in Khayelitsha.”
I looked down at it. “Yes, I suppose it is.”
“Do you know where that is?” She knew I didn’t. “Do you remember the miles and miles of shanty towns we drove by on the way here from the airport?”
I nodded.
“They’re not just slums, not the way you or I think of slums or ghettos. They’re townships. That was Khayelitsha, the largest one.
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Do you know what a township is?”
I shook my head. I should have read my
Fodor’s
.
“Township refers to residential areas for non-white peoples.”
My face drained of colour. Was this why the taxi driver would not go there? Apartheid had ended over a decade ago, but here was a vivid leftover of that brutal time. One of many, I would soon discover.
“Khayelitsha means ‘new home’,” Cassandra continued, “and was intended by the government to provide controlled housing to legal residents. But the influx controls didn’t work. Keep in mind, Russell, they planned for one hundred and twenty thousand people to live there-today Khayelitsha is home to
over
half a million
. Most of them are unemployed, and many of them live without basic infrastructure services.”
I remained silent. She let that sink in for a moment or two before she made a surprising offer: “I can take you there tomorrow if you like.”
My eyes widened at the suggestion. I had thought she was going to tell me how foolhardy I was to even attempt a visit to this part of town; I was thinking my search for Matt was over before it even got started.
“Are you serious?”
She nodded, a slight smile on her thin but nicely shaped lips. “My driver can take us. He knows the people there and where to go.”
“But, but, I can’t ask this of you, it’s too much…” I said it weak-ly-I knew this was my best, and maybe only, chance to get to where I needed to go.
“Nonsense. I’m here to take pictures and I haven’t been to Khayelitsha in years. Not exactly
Well-Spotted
’s cup of tea, I suppose, but there are plenty of other magazines that will love it, and so will I.” She lowered her jaw and looked at me from beneath a swath of shiny brown hair that had fallen across her left eye. “But you have to promise me something.”
Here it was, the rub. No such thing as a free ride. “What is it?”