It feels wonderful to be clean and fed on something besides bread and peanut butter. Having spent the last few days alone and figuring things out on the fly, I am unexpectedly happy to be back in Cape Town, which I've begun to think of as the closest thing to a home in this country. Or if not a home, then a home turf - a place where I have some friends and a daily routine, and the names of places are more familiar to me.
On Sunday, I hitched a ride to Jeffreys Bay with Olaf and Kat, who were heading to the other side of the country. It was very funny to think that the three of us, all friends from Princeton, had somehow ended up together in a car in rural South Africa, in some kind of bizarre rendition of Kerouac's On the Road. I guess people have a way of finding their friends, no matter where they go.
We drove all day along the N2, which hugs the coast of South Africa. This road is nicknamed the Garden Route because it traverses a beautiful, bright rolling countryside as far as the eye can see for hundreds of kilometers. As we sped by sheep and hitchhikers, Kat and I took turns burning CDs on Olaf's laptop, playing each one over and over even after we'd all gotten sick of hearing the same incongruous mix of Bob Marley, Disney, Chopin, and Lord of the Rings on endless repeat.
We stopped in Hermanus for lunch and whale-watching. Hermanus is a small town right on the shore. It's a tourist trap of the most successful variety: it's crammed with posh cafes and kitschy souvenir shops, and during the day it's absolutely run amok with tourists. Generally, I really don't like places like Hermanus; I think being surrounded by that many tourists makes a place feel superficial, as though it is built completely on self-indulgence and cheap experiences. But on our way back to the car, Olaf said something which made me realize that he sees tourists in such a different way than I do.
"I like being around tourists," he said. "It's sort of reassuring."
"Why?" I said in some surprise. 'Reassuring' is possibly one of the last words I'd associate with tourists.
"I think it's because they're so clueless," he replied simply. "I think most tourists are looking for something, whether or not they realize it." He paused and thought for a moment. "It's as if they are trying to educate themselves - except they are very clumsy about it. They don't know what they're doing, but they're trying to do it anyway. It's very earnest."
I thought about what he said for a while. It felt strange to reconsider something and end up finding that it wasn't quite as ugly as I'd thought, and that there might even be something endearing about it.
We didn't make any other stops. By the time we reached Knysna, night had fallen and the sky was filled with stars. So many stars! More than I'd ever seen, except for the few times I've been backpacking out in the middle of nowhere. As Olaf drove, I tilted my head out the window and just drank them in. If we hadn't been going so fast, I could have hung out the window looking at them for hours.
It was around then that Kat burned the fourth and last CD we had. At our behest, she added "Poor Unfortunate Souls" from the Little Mermaid, and when it finally came on, Olaf and I shouted and screeched and sang along to it, every word.
"Poor unfortunate souls!" we crooned along with Ursula. "In pain, in need! This one longing to be thinner, that one wants to get the girl, and do I help them? YES INDEED!" we shouted gleefully, as Olaf gunned the engine and the stars and forests of Knysna flew by.
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