My father always used to say I either love or
hate—there is no middle ground with me. He might have thought that was an
insult but I take it as a compliment. And it’s true; I have the dramatic masks
Thalia and Melpomene painted in bright colors on either side of my face. Call
me bipolar, call me spirited … for me, like or dislike is the dirty dish water
of life—the taste and colors of the meal are there, but not in any form I can enjoy.
But living in the two-faced bright zone is exhausting;
anxiety wraps itself around me like a coat of arms, rage builds a nest in my
hair, tears bubble like mud boils, laughter uses all three sets of abdominal
muscles, and joy howls at the moon. Sometimes I see stars as in a cartoon
concussion just from the very act of living out loud.
I realized recently that Cape Town, my mother city, is
a lot like me. She is two-faced hate/love: the Cape of Good Hope and the Cape
of Storms.
In the Cape of Good Hope, Table Mountain—a giant
dining table lifted from the ocean as if from Aphrodite’s dining room—invites
us to take big bites of her floral kingdom. Her sky is sapphire, her clouds
pillow white, her oceans lasciviously lick the salty toes of lovers frolicking
within her basin. Should pestilence dare trouble her land, she huffs it away
with a healing wind, and when heat withers the earth into an old crone, she
offers a gentle mist to soften the summer air into spring fever. She is full
heart open flower under a full moon
This is the Cape Town of the tourist and the wealthy: voted
the best city in the world to visit. In this city, the chefs are world class, the
shops are upmarket, the fruit is plucked sun-ripened and juicy, and the wine
flows ripe from the vine. Just when you think it can’t get any better, Cape
Town’s diet doctor, Tim Noakes, blesses you and says “You can eat fat!” Pile on
the bacon, folks, and don’t spare the cream.
But, beware the Cape of Storms. Unsuspecting visitors
who have endured the kerosene-fuming sky journey above land and ocean to the
Fairest Cape in all the World, may arrive in winter and at the wrong time of
the month. Then, the Mother City’s oceans crash and pull and murder by
shark-shaped tooth, her winds moan and bitch and bite at the very bones, and
even Aphrodite’s table, the looming grey giant, disappears behind a cloak of
mist for weeks at a time as if by a magician’s spiteful hand. At the airport,
tourists awaiting their return ordeal scratch their heads and wonder if they’ve
been duped. “What mountain? It’s a fraud! They told us Table Mountain was huge
but we never even saw it.”
Like the disappearing mountain, the Cape of Storms is
the hidden city, where poverty and crime and rape and corruption and ineptitude
affects everyone living there—the rich and poor, black and white. Those living
in the two cities simultaneously can find themselves in a bipolar
existence—rage and delight; fear and comfort. The power outages and noise from generators
in rich suburbs are as disruptive as the sounds of partying going on in the
squatter camps. The rich run for exercise alongside the working poor rushing to
catch their taxis, and as they run, both the rich and poor fear for their
lives.
But there is also grace and kindness in both sides of
this city I love/hate. The legacy of Nelson Mandela and Bishop Tutu continues in the
hope presented by our determined provincial government and South Africa’s
fierce and fearless public prosecutor, Thuli Madonsela. Many rich people pay
for the schooling of their domestic servants’ children and even hire laundry
services so their aging housekeepers whose families depend on their having an
income don't have to do the laundry. There are caring churches and organizations working to uplift the poor
and suffering. There is a hunger for education among the youth and an
abundance of creativity and ingenuity found in both large corporations and in
small businesses and those selling their crafts at the traffic lights.
I urge you to visit this beautiful city at the tip of
Africa. South African Airlines is offering a special rate. Take a break from
winter and go in February or March and bring your American dollars or British
pounds. Spend lavishly in the Cape of Good Hope. You will have an unforgettable
visit. But before you return home, give a thought to those struggling each day
in the Cape of Storms and the winter that will soon arrive, and give to them
too. Here’s a good place to start: The
Safe House Trust—a safe house for those who have suffered
from sexual abuse
