Roanoke Times
Copyright (c) 1995, Landmark Communications, Inc.
DATE: SUNDAY, February 19, 1995 TAG: 9502210036
SECTION: TRAVEL PAGE: G-8 EDITION: METRO
SOURCE: DAVID HERNDON NEWSDAY
DATELINE: LENGTH: Long
Jol is one of those dandy words that works as a noun and a verb, just like `'party.'' But jolling, as any South African will tell you, is not just any kind of routine partying. A proper jol holds a greater sense of adventure; it involves a headlong plunge into the unknown in pursuit of new experiences and good times.
On a late November tour of South Africa - make that the new South Africa - I learned the meaning of this wonderful little word in the best way possible: by just doing it. I flew to Cape Town in the south, rented a car and drove it in a more or less northeasterly direction for the better part of three weeks. By the time I departed from Johannesburg - how best to put this? - South Africa had blown my mind.
A beach lover, I had seen miles and miles of dramatic coastline, much of it quite remote and unspoiled. A Manhattan cave-dweller with a simple craving for sky and other evidence of the natural world, I had quite easily immersed myself in a truly African landscape populated with giraffes, zebras, elephants, rhinos, impalas, eagles, hippos and crocodiles. As a people-person, I found the South Africans to be almost uniformly generous and friendly, in spite of sometimes vast socio-cultural differences.(Begin optional trim)
By driving from Cape Town to Johannesburg without an itinerary - and with a stroke of good fortune in meeting Edwards, an extraordinarily knowledgeable, like-minded native who was able to join me for an impromptu jol a week into my trip - I was able to experience a piece of off-the-beaten-track Zululand in a way that very few South Africans (especially white ones) ever have.
Most interesting, perhaps, was the palpable sense of being in a magnificent but deeply troubled land at a moment when the sense of possibility for meaningful change was at hand. Sitting in a dark shebeen (Webster: ``unlicensed ... drinking establishment'') talking with a young Zulu chief about brave new concepts like voting and the eagerly anticipated arrival of electricity put flesh and blood on my skeletal comprehension of the country's brutal past and confounding news reports of the complicated present.
In South Africa history is being made now. The country is trying gamely to set its house in order and rejoin the world community; in so doing, it has opened its doors wide to travelers. While people of conscience might well have avoided the country during apartheid's 45-year reign of white supremacy, President Nelson Mandela's coalition government is actively pursuing tourism on a grand scale. The nation is even bidding for the 2004 Olympics, despite serious questions about facilities.
It's Africa, but equipped with a First World infrastructure; the roads and signage are excellent, and credit cards are happily accepted. It may be expensive to fly there - about $1,200 through a discounter, $1,600 direct with South African Airways - but once you arrive, dollars earn favorable value. (Car rental is an exception; make reservations before departure to economize.)
The climate is welcoming, temperate virtually year-round, and most people you come across speak English and feel warmly toward Americans.
Surf culture is deep in South Africa: You pick up a hitch-hiker with a body-board. He turns out to be the national champion, going down to the beach to practice for the world championships.
One morning I meandered down the west coast via Chapman's Peak Drive - which rivals California's Big Sur as a scenic, mountainside coastal roadway - past curiosities like a deserted 10-mile-long beach and a lively commercial fishing village and arrived at the Cape Point Reserve, the park at the historic Cape of Good Hope.
Climbing the lighthouse at the Cape of Good Hope provided an awe-inspiring vista as well as a vital sense of place. Gazing east, I could see more and more of the awesome coastline that I would be heading toward the next day. Looking north along the ridge of the Cape Peninsula, one could see as far as Cape Town, and appreciate the stark geography of this spine of mountains dangling off the bottom of the continent. A couple of hours later, after touring up the Indian Ocean side and taking the freeway to town, I rode the cable gondola up to Table Mountain, an elevation of 3,500 feet, and achieved a satisfying sense of symmetry from having gone peak-to-peak.
Later, I stumbled across an agreeable area called The Gardens, with nice bars and bistros and friendly yuppies. One young man told me grisly war stories of fighting against Namibia in the early '80s (on America's behalf, he said, quite resentfully), and when I told him I would soon be driving east along the Garden Route, he drew me a little map of a beach called Noetzie, where there were three castles, one of which was a bed and breakfast inn.
When I followed my barroom map to Noetzie, I found a secluded beach with the castles. But, when I went up to the one that was supposed to be the inn, I discovered a sign that read ``Private.'' As I skulked around the grounds wondering what to do, an older gent popped out the front door. ``Can I help you?'' he inquired in that tone that really means ``What the heck do you want?''
``I've been led to believe that this is a bed and breakfast,'' I said.
``It is, but we're all booked up for the night.''
``That's a pity,'' said I. ``This is such a beautiful spot, I've come quite a long way, and I might never be able to come back to visit.''
He asked where I was from, I told him the United States, he said go get your things, I'll fix you a bed. I figured he'd arrange me a cot under a staircase or something, but when I returned he showed me up a ladder to a round bedroom in the upper story of one of the castle's turrets. The comforter on the double bed was turned down, and the Gothic windows were open to a 270-degree panorama of the beach and sea.
Joe Marciano was his name, and within an hour he'd gone from trying to run me off to calling me ``family,'' saying I reminded him of his brother John, who had been killed in World War II, at age 19. Joe spent his career in the bush in Kenya, Botswana and Rhodesia, guiding the likes of Hemingway, John Wayne and Ava Gardner on safari.
``I was a bit of a vagabond and a pirate,'' he said.
At last I was able to go swimming, in rough, whitecapped surf that gave me all I could handle. When the tide was out, a cluster of rocks formed a natural chaise lounge, perfect for an afternoon of reading.
After a couple of days, it was time to move on, and I asked Joe for a bill. ``I'll leave that up to you, Dave,'' he said. ``I can't ask you for money, you remind me too much of my brother John.'' Having no idea what the rates were, I paid him $200 and hit the road again.
by CNB