5 Apr 2009 – Return to Table Mountain and Township Church

On Saturday morning the weather looked a bit ominous (at least by Cape Town standards) for a hike up the tallest mountain in the city. We took a good long look at the hazy mountaintop and heavy gray sky before setting off in the car towards Kirstenbosch with our packs full of water and snacks. Rachel and I had decided to join Emily A and her mother (who is visiting for the week) on the Table Mountain hike, and the four of us began the trek from the Gardens around 9:15 in the morning. It took us two hours of steep climbing up the rocky gorge before we clambered out above the tree line and took in the first incredible view off the mountainside. In that time, the thick, humid air yielded two brief bouts of rain, each one bringing heavy drops splattering down through the leafy canopy over our heads, a much needed refreshment from the tropical atmosphere.

The climb was fairly strenuous, but we set a pace that was manageable for all four of us. Neither Rachel nor Emily’s mother had hiked the mountain before, so at the more grueling points, Emily and I did our best to keep the troupe optimistic; our encouragements often included estimates of how close we were from the next great view, a good rest spot, or the summit of the mountain. The sun burned through the remaining clouds by the time we reached the trail along the rocky ridge near the top of the mountain, but thankfully there was a steady breeze to keep us cool as we set off towards the summit just out of view. We stopped to enjoy the clusters of King Protea – the national flower – popping out of the rocks and scraggly brush along the mountaintop, and to listen to the quiet nature sounds of the serene location.

On this second trip to the top of Table Mountain, I picked up on a few things I hadn’t recognized the first time. For one, the trip itself seemed much shorter than it had before, since we knew what to expect of each section of the trail. It was also a bit cooler than the first time we’d climbed, and we took it a bit slower so we didn’t wear ourselves out prematurely. Emily and I recalled how the first hike had felt endless, like it had consumed an entire day and had taken us far from civilization. This time I still was aware of our distinct separation from the city below us, but I did not feel quite as disconnected from Cape Town.

We ate our lunches by the cairn of rocks at the highest peak and talked with a man from London who’d taken the cable car up to walk along the top. Then we set off on the relatively easy walk along the boardwalk path that took us to the very edge of the “Table” overlooking the City Bowl below. The wind was much stronger than the first time we’d climbed, and I had to put my camera away so that I could use one hand to hold onto my hat and the other to clutch the rocky cliff along which we shuffled. The views were as phenomenal as ever as we approached the cable car station and the clouds rolled in from the north and south. The roiling white wisps enveloped the lower peaks around us, including the narrow ridge of Lion’s Head that stood in perfect view of the cable car while we descended.

Emily’s great aunt, who lives in Cape Town, was kind enough to pick us up at the base of the mountain and drive us back to Loch Rd. Earlier in the morning, several people had joined a protest march coordinated by the Social Justice Coalition, and in late afternoon most of the group ventured into the city for the Jazz Festival, so the house was relatively quiet. I worked on a paper in the evening and did a bit of cleaning in the pool house.

On Sunday morning, two of the students interning at Thandakhulu High School had arranged to meet one of the school’s teachers in the township of Guguletu for a church service, so I tagged along. Our first experience at a township church had been quite moving; the dancing and songs of worship had been full of energy, and I’d appreciated the strong sense of community. Emily’s mother drove us to the township, about fifteen minutes from Rondebosch, at which point we were joined by the teacher, Ms. Bopi, for the rest of the ride to the church. The Thandakhulu interns have spoken highly of Ms. Bopi from the day they began their internships at the school, and immediately upon meeting her, I understood why. The short, middle-aged woman was beaming as she scurried across the street to meet us, arms outstretched, bright beaded necklace and colorful head wrap further illuminating her welcoming expression. Her boisterous, mother-hen disposition was enhanced a few minutes later by her two young daughters’ bouncing approach as we seated ourselves in the church pews.

We’d arrived around 10:45, so we listened to the end of the prayer service that preceded the traditional service at 11. The church was about three times as large as the little one we’d visited in January, but the powerful preaching and hymns still filled up the space inside the cement-walled, tin-roofed building. Once again, the absence of a piano or organ left room for makeshift instrumentals: clapping, rhythmic stomping, and the beating of a small leather pillow (thwump!). The Baptist service was delivered almost entirely in Xhosa, expect for the greetings extended to us – the visitors – and the one line introductions we were encouraged to stand up and deliver to the church community.

The testimonials portion of the service was quite an emotional ordeal, as members of the parish came to the front of the pews and talked about transpired events that required the intervention or forgiveness of God. One woman dissolved into tears and sobs as she begged skyward in a desperate prayer. Though we couldn’t understand her story, we could see its affecting impact all around us. Most of the women in the church bent forward to dab at their eyes with tissues.

The service lasted until after 1 and ended with the parishioners forming a line along the wall to the main door, shaking everyone’s hands as they passed. Despite the language barrier, we were shuffled along in the process and greeted warmly by every person in the church. All the while the parishioners continued to sing and dance, infusing the whole event with a lively, friendly energy. Before leaving, we spoke with several members of the church about where we were from and how long we were in the country. Several people were kind enough to invite us back to the church for Good Friday.

On the drive back through Guguletu, we passed the many township scenes with which we’ve grown familiar: people crowding along the sides of the roads, children, dogs, and goats running free in the streets, the rich sounds and colors of Sunday afternoon life in such a poor and densely populated area. When we passed a corral of sheep jammed between the road and a small cinderblock house, Emily’s mother remarked dolefully, “Oh! They’re going to be smileys!” (For more information on smileys, see Dan’s post, here.)

Some people spent Sunday afternoon in the city participating in the Cape Town food festival, sampling food from a number of expensive restaurants. Most of the house watched a movie in the evening. And I walked to Main Rd to pick up the week’s groceries at Pick ‘n’ Pay, since Checkers was closed after 4PM. I spent the rest of the night making dinner and working on organizing photos and videos from the trip.

It rained enough last night to bring a chill to the air this morning as I set out for a run at 7AM. The ground was damp and the air smelled like wet pavement and car exhaust as I ran around the Commons with the early morning sun lighting up Table Mountain in front of me; it was a pleasant environment for running. The minibus ride into the city this morning was a bit more hair raising than usual, however, because of the hawker’s practice of wrenching open the side door well before we’d pulled to a stop. I’d been squished into the last (non)seat, right next to the door, so there were a number of close calls as the door pulled back. I was left clinging to my bag and the seat in front of me and throwing my weight to the right as the curb whooshed past at thirty miles an hour on my left. Cassidy and I couldn’t help but laugh about the purely Capetonian scenario – but only after we arrived at the taxi rank all in one piece.