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To a photo of me and my Cape Town roommate, described in this Dispatch

 
Let me tell you how the King of the Cape helped me achieve my dreams.
 
It took two flights, totalling 13 hours, to carry this windswept body 
from London to Cape Town, South Africa.  The journey was hardly 
auspicious.  It began the day before in Walthamstow, London, when I, the 
Boys, and my red wine hangover left my friends' party-flattened house to 
take the Tube to Heathrow.  I was feeling low about leaving.  Really 
ass-dragging. Once London was behind me, so would be all the people who 
know me.  From here on out, it would be strange people on stranger 
continents. Finally there came a time when I could delay my departure no 
longer.  Sighing deeply, I hefted my bag onto my back. The front door 
swung open, I took one step out, and a black cat ran in front of me.  It 
glanced at me -- purposefully made eye contact, I tell you -- and 
skittered away again.
 
"I'm screwed," I said.
 
"Black cats are GOOD luck," Alan said.  
 
Doubtful, I thought.  Anticipating plane crashes, I went to the airport, 
spent my remaining change in a blizzard of candy bar buying, and felt 
blue.  On the plane, a fat woman with a skin rash sat next to me and 
proceeded to regale me with tales of her desultory life in an 
unplaceable and deeply impenetrable brogue.  All through the flight, she 
kept telling me she was about to go to the lavatory because she felt 
ill.  She repeatedly farted and then looked out the window -- as if it 
came from the wings.  Somewhere over Lusaka, I think, she vomited.  Only 
she didn't really vomit; she tried to stay the spew with a few gingerly 
placed fingers, so little chunklets squirted onto her TV screen.  I 
valiantly pretended not to even notice.  But I was getting sick myself, 
especially when the sunlight started to heat it up.
 
In Johannesburg, I somehow convinced the Immigrations department to 
allow me to stay for twice the recommended dosage for Americans.  It 
must have been Be Nice to Dopey Vomit-Scented Americans Day, because now 
my passport bears a six-month, multiple-entry South African visa.  On 
the two-hour flight to Cape Town, which is about as far from Joburg as 
Chicago is from New York, I was feeling elated.  I barely noticed that 
the kicking German child behind me was turning my seat into a carnival 
ride.
 
In Cape Town, my London Blues vanished.  Puffy clouds coasted over the 
city.  A group of black strikers, bearing placards for a 14 percent pay 
raise, danced, laughed, and sang a Zulu chant in buoyant protest.
 
I wound up at a gloomy backpacker's hovel, cruelly called Astor's.  It 
was the kind of hostel I've so far been lucky to avoid; a vortex of 
drop-outs and beer-clutching slackers.  Almost all men, and all of them 
single, because no woman would have them.  Names like G.  And Storm.  
Evenings spent with two people at their little bar, with one of them 
rolling a joint and the other optimistically blasting dance music into 
an empty room.  I'm telling you, darkness abounded there.  Most of the 
guests were so deep in debt to the owner that they'd probably never be 
able to leave.  So they just drink more beer.  As a lifestyle, it's 
seductive.  As a future, it's empty.  So many globetrotters tumble into 
this void.  After two days of slurping semi-cold Castles and watching 
skinheads play billiards with chipped balls, I felt brackish.
 
Yet for a few days, I just wanted to rest.  The last few months of 
hurtling through time and space had caught up with me.  I bought the 
Argus each day and looked at the classifieds for roommates, but didn't 
call anyone because I knew that, since I was only here for a few months, 
no one would want me.  I was resigned to renting an Isherwood.  
Something with mold and rodents, with a view of equipment.
 
Anxious and in no hurry to live like that, I spent time wandering around 
this fine city.  Picture Africa. Cape Town is at the southwest corner, 
where a little curl of land tweaks off the continent like an 
anthropomorphic tail.  CT is at the top of that cape, known as the Cape 
of Good Hope (or Kaap de Gooie Hoop in the local tongue).  
 
Those of who have been to my old NYC apartment saw the glorious Table 
Mountain enlarged and mounted by the front door.  A kilometer high, this 
magnificent mountain rises in perfect flatness from the edges of town, 
cupping the city against the bay and protecting its back from the Arctic 
winds.  In the afternoons, a freakish cloud known locally as the 
Tablecloth forms over the ridge and drifts into town like a theatrical 
effect.  At night, it's illuminated with powerful klieg lights, which 
makes it hover in the background. When you look up at it, it seems like 
some slain mythical beast that's turned to stone.  
 
>From the back of Table Mountain, a series of verdant peaks spindles down 
the Cape like a dragon's tail, culminating in the tempestuous Cape 
Point, where untold numbers of ships were lost before the route to India 
was finally opened round it.
 
It's a glorious setting.  But if it's anything, South Africa is a study 
in black and white.  Huddling close to this beauty is the grimmest 
poverty imaginable in an enlightened nation.  The dusty and windy Cape 
Flats, to the east of the Mountain, are home to millions blacks and 
coloureds (to use the South African term for someone of mixed race), 
many of whom live in plywood shacks whose roofs are held in place by 
rocks.   Although many white-manufactured maps don't even acknowledge 
the existence of these ranges, places like Mitchell's Plain, Atlantis, 
and Athlone are by far more populous than the white parts of town.  In 
America, the white-black ratio is around 85 to 15 percent.  Here it's 
reversed.  The only thing keeping the downtrodden from rising up is a 
sense of false hope, instilled by the 1994 referendum to end apartheid.  
The majority of blacks are living with a false sense of fealty to the 
New South Africa -- the promised land of new prosperity that is 
perpetually "just around the corner." and the fact that amongst the 
black and coloured populations seethe countless rival factions.  In the 
interest of attracting tourism, South Africa likes to call itself the 
Rainbow Nation.  In truth, there is anything but harmony or unity.
 
Crime has reached alarming rates here.  People hire attendants when they 
park their cars at meters.  At supermarkets, cash register drawers are 
guarded by a foot of wire mesh.  Every dwelling -- be it a hostel or a 
condo tower -- is encircled by barbed wire and gates.  And posted over 
most doors is the '90s analogue for "whites only": RIGHT OF ADMISSION 
RESERVED.  Even gangsterism has outgrown its American counterpart; 
groups created to protect people from drug lords have taken to bombing 
civilians in retaliatory attacks.  (In fact, I arrived exactly one week 
after a bombing at Cape Town's Planet Hollywood.  Two people were killed 
and several British children lost their limbs. Blamed at first on Muslim 
extremists, it turns out the bomb had similarities with ones used by 
local concerns.)  The youth gangs of the poor Cape Flats actually like 
to mimic the gangs of the United States -- one of the oldest gangs in 
Cape Town is called the Young Americans.  That's not a little bit ironic, 
especially considering the growing movement in America's black 
neighborhoods to reclaim their African roots.
 
I have much to say about South Africa.  Let's put the info on the 
installment plan.
 
If you're American, though, comfort is yours.  The South African rand, 
though slowly recovering, comes six to the dollar.  Lunch at a 
California-style bistro can cost you two dollars.  The hostel cost $7 a 
night.  
 
It gets into your blood.  The first few days here, I was feeling rich, 
so I went to my favorite restaurant here, called Rustica. You should 
taste the food!  The olives and the capers are as plump as New England 
scallops. The bananas are as smooth as fresh marzipan, and the avocados 
("avos") spread like home-churned butter. It's been months since I could 
afford to eat at a restaurant where I didn't have to choose my meal from 
the other side of glass.  I didn't just eat.  I dined.  
 
Staring up at the glory of Table Mountain. Then, in the middle of my 
linguine pesce with linefish, I noticed another black cat.  He was 
sitting on a gate, winking at me.  
 
What message did the cats have for me?
 
Amidst the lonely crew at Astor's was my old friend Deon, the Afrikaner 
who I met last year in Jeffrey's Bay.  Model looks, sharp mind, English 
as a second language.  The minute I saw him reading "Catch-22" at the 
back of a dim bunkroom, I knew something had to be done.  
 
On Friday, three of us -- Deon, me, and Mark from Joburg -- went to 
Camp's Bay, which has to be one of the most spectacular beaches on 
Earth.  The dozen peaks of the Twelve Apostles loomed above, and 
six-foot seas roared in from the Atlantic below.  We sat on the rocks, 
looking for whales, until Mark said:
 
"What would you say to getting a flat together?"
 
I thought a lot of it, since it solved my problem of how to get a lease 
as a foreigner.  Mark and I called one of the places listed in the 
classifieds (furnished, two bedrooms, great views, month to month lease, 
R2000), and four hours later, showed up at the address, high on the 
slopes of Signal Hill.  We were the only ones there.  I was convinced 
that we'd acted too slowly.  Surely a flat with this view would have 
been snatched up already.  I prepared Mark for snappy talk, got him 
ready to flash the cash to the owner.
 
I've been in New York too long.
 
Ten minutes later, a white BMW trolled our way and parked half-in and 
half-out of a space.  Out rolled a short, fat, bald man -- think Larry 
"Bud" Mehlman -- who wore the sort of thick black frames you see on 
social studies teachers in 1950s yearbooks. The frame must have weighed 
a pound alone, and on him, looked not unlike cat's eyes extending past 
the softness of his round white face.
 
"I'm Julius Buchinksy," he announced, and waited for the applause.
 
When Mark and I only gave him polite nods, he became slightly vexed. 
"Don't you know me?"
 
We smiled and gulped.
 
"You must not be from Cape Town," he shrugged.
 
"No, we're not," I said.
 
"Oh!  You're a Yank," he said, and shook my hand. "I'm going to visit my 
son in Philadelphia on Wednesday.  I've been to the States 14 times.  
He's moving to Seattle.  Ask anyone from Cape Town who I am and they'll 
tell you I'm the King of the Cape. Do you go to the cinema? I can get 
you discounted tickets."
 
What we have here, I thought, is a tippler.  Julius Buchinsky waddled 
ahead of us with a vulgar confidence but didn't have a key to the gate, 
so he pressed all 30 buzzers and waited until someone let us in. Then he 
stumbled down a stair ("Whoops!") and marched into number 32.  A woman 
was inside, playing with a toddler.
 
"What are you doing here?" he demanded.
 
"I live here," she said.
 
"I was just here yesterday. The man gave me the keys," he said, as if 
that explained everything.
 
"I can't help you," she said, and moved for the front door.
 
"Number 35?" he said.
 
"Thirty-two," she said.
 
He began to mumble, and tripped over the same step again ("Whoops!") 
then went to Number 53 and tried the same thing there.  No one answered.  
Mark and I trailed behind, like embarrassed children, while Buchinksy 
pressed doorbells, went into new flats, and demanded to know how the 
residents had managed to move in overnight.
 
Eventually, thanks to equal parts diligence and mad luck, Buchinsky 
realized we were in the wrong complex.
 
We finally located the right flat, number 65. (I can see how he'd get 
that confused...)  While he prattled on about South American fabrics and 
how his wife won't ride in his other car and the rising price of movie 
tickets ("You're a travel writer?  Write about how Julius Buchinksy is 
the best auctioneer in Cape Town!"), Mark and I gawked at the flat.  
Perfect shape.  Lovely furniture.  TV.  Dishes, pots, pans, bedsheets.  
FOUR floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking a 180-degree view of Table 
Bay.
 
Julius Buchinksy looked up at me. "Now what will happen is you'll give 
me some rands," he demanded. "For good faith. I don't want to waste my 
time."  The New Yorker in me told me not to trust such a doddering old 
goat. But the traveler in me, the one willing to live and write in South 
Africa, took the bait.  I gave him some rands, but said it made me 
uneasy.
 
"I like that you're nervous," he said, stuffing my money into his 
wallet. "Makes me trust you."  
 
And he scampered away again ("Whoops!") to tell the painters to get to 
work.
 
That is how the next day, I found myself full of joy as I stood on the 
balcony of my own apartment in Cape Town.
 
Here's the view:  To the left is a swath of the open Atlantic Ocean.  
Sometimes, if you use binoculars, you can see the whales skip the 
surface.  Next to that, 12 km off the coast, you can see Robben Island, 
where Nelson Mandela spent most of his 27 years as a convict.  A 
lighthouse shines a few doors down from the prison.  Then begins the 
busy freighter port of Table Bay, and behind that, a string of handsome 
mountains that glow green in the sun.  Far away, you can see the grey 
forms of the mountains in the winelands of Stellenbosch.  Then, at the 
right, the skyline of downtown Cape Town.  
 
In front of all that, there are highways and parks, teeming with cars 
and people.  And the bright lights and buzz of the V&A Waterfront, Cape 
Town's (corporate) entertainment hub, lie in the mid-ground. It's 
spectacular.  The first day, I stood there hugging myself, surveying 
Africa from the bottom, wondering why I deserved it.  The moon was 
burstingly round and the skies were sunset-lavender.  This was Luxury.  
(Shame on me.  A land of poverty, and I choose pastry.)
 
And the price?  About $150 American a month, plus a brutal (and I do 
mean pantingly painful) uphill hike.  You gotta pay for a view somehow.  
If it's by developing firm legs, tant mieux.
 
Here's the address.  I should be there through December at least:
 
Jason Cochran
65 Highstrand
Boundary Road
Green Point
Cape Town 8005
South Africa
 
My cell phone (yes, I got a cell phone; they're much cheaper and far more 
popular outside of America): country code 27, then (82) 74 60603.  In 
America, you have to dial 011 first.  I also have voicemail here.  A 
warning, though: Calling here is expensive.
 
Deon has also joined me at the flat.  Yesterday we lounged around, 
drinking local wine and eating biltong (a traditional South African kind 
of jerky) made of kudu (a kind of antelope).  We had ripe avocados on 
fresh bakery bread.  Trance music was playing, the kettle was making 
coffee.  Wow, but did I miss the comforts of home!  I guess I'd kind of 
put it out of my mind.
 
We went out for groceries.  A few blocks away, a pair of black cats saw 
us and ran over.  One of them gave me some playful nips.  I had to thank 
him for the good luck he's brought.  Can guardian angels take the form 
of cats, and follow you around the globe unnoticed?  I'm beginning to 
wonder. 
 
Mark, it seems, will not be joining us in the flat.  I guess the Fates 
have used him as a catalyst.  When it came time to extricate himself 
from the social vortex of Astor's, he wheedled out of the deal.  Some 
people, I guess, aren't strong enough to handle their dreams. It's a 
matter of escape velocity.
 
The Man In the Moon is lying on his side.  The water goes down the drain 
clockwise instead of counterclockwise.  David Duchovny advertises for 
Ford Mondeo, David Beckham is a heartthrob. The radio plays Robbie 
Williams, Tin Tin Out, Sash!, and Just Jinger. Everyone speaks another 
first language, including my roommate. Milk comes in bags. Sesame Street 
is in Zulu.  La Vache Qui Rit rit.  It's another world out here.  I lie 
back and watch the boats unload.
 
Yesterday, as I walked through the seaside area of Sea Point to apply 
for a phone, I walked by a discount jewellery store.  Outside was an 
enormous poster of a younger Julius Buchinsky, an old pose, in the same 
outsized glasses but with slicked-back grandpa hair.  It looked like a 
photo of an insurance agent in St. Louis. A totem of small-time 
commerce. Underneath was the legend GUARANTEED TO LIQUIDATE.  
 
That man can do anything.  Maybe he really is the King of Cape Town.
 
Good Hopes,
Jason
 
Right now I'm in: Cape Town, South Africa
Days: 134  Countries: 14