Left PE and hit the road for Mossel Bay. Becky did a heroic job of driving on the N2. Driving around here is a delicate balance of overtaking the vehicle ahead of you and being overtaken. Nobody just drives. That's all well and good if one is on the Autobahn, where everyone has cars that work, but here one's path might be suddenly blocked by a family, or a man on a bicycle, or a goat. Somehow these obstacles don't deter the drivers from speeding. Lots of interesting life to look at, it being life is taking place right there along the highway.

Mossel Bay is a sleepy little tourist town with a north-facing beach. We stayed in a (minimally) converted train car that was part of a train-car B&B. The train was still on its track, right on the beach. I enjoyed the wind blowing and the surf crashing in my ears all night. We had dinner in a fish restaurant that had only white people in it, with black car guys watching our cars as we dined. Wierd.

At breakfast I enjoyed my coffee in the restaurant train car with the inn owner and another chap who were watching rugby. It was the Super 12s, a tournament among South African, New Zealand, and Australian teams. Some players tape their ears to their head so they won't get ripped off, and those who've had concussions recently wear these ridiculous puffed helmets that look like tea cozys. It's awfully entertaining to watch, but I wouldn't want to sit next to one of those guys on an airplane (which, incidentally, Scott did, Louis Koen, the kicker from the Cats). The B&B owner assumed I was from Australia and rooting for the Blues. When I told them I was from the states, the other guest said "hey I'm from the north too, from Zimbabwe." It was jolly fun; I could have happily stayed there all day, learning the finer points of gladiation.

From Mossel Bay we continued on west to Cape Town. Went through a stunning mountain pass, then ended up in the Cape flats, including our first glimpses of the townships, "informal settlements" that are home to millions of people who have either been relocated there from other portions of Cape Town or who have moved there from the countryside in search of work. In my view they are Cape Town's most striking feature, more striking than Table Mountain. Table Mountain had its tablecloth on, and the weather was cool and foggy, somewhat like June in Bellingham.

We made our way down to the Victoria and Alfred Waterfront, a developer's dream where all tourists are funneled, and hit upon the first of a string of excellent restaurants with really good food and really really good wine and a bill that you just laugh at.

Palm Sunday morning the city shut down. Fortunately the aquarium was open, so we gaped at the fish and they gaped back at us. Watched the penguins being fed, and sharks swimming overhead. We were confined to tourist activities by the wet weather, but that was still quite fun. Of course we endured the excellent meal with good wine and so on.

I really liked our hotel, in that the sports channel always had either cricket, rugby, or soccer on, and there was a full workout gym with a pool downstairs. I was in heaven.

On Monday I had to squeeze in my two must-sees for Cape Town: a tour of some of the townships, and Robben Island, the prison where political prisoners, including Nelson Mandela, were interned.

The township tour made such an impression on me that it gets its own page.

After seeing the reality of daily life for most South Africans, it was quite a shock to return to the polished touristville consumer-driven Victoria and Alfred Waterfront. I hopped a boat out to Robben Island, where Nelson Mandela and other political prisoners were imprisoned for decades. We took a bus tour around the island, and then a walking tour inside the prison. The island is absolutely beautiful, warm wind, ocean beaches, views of Cape Town and Table Mountain, and ostriches, gemsboks, and penguins. We had to stay in the busses because of the ostriches, which can kill you with their kicks. We drove to the limestone quarry where the prisoners did unnecessary forced labor, and saw the village where the wardens and their families lived. We then toured the prison compound, including Nelson Mandela's cell and the yard where they got exercise. Political prisoners were treated far worse than common criminals. The tour guides for the prison compound are actual former political prisoners who had been interned there.

I got the following text off a web site:

"For nearly 400 years, Robben Island, 12 kilometres from Cape Town, was a place of banishment, exile, isolation and imprisonment. It was here that rulers sent those they regarded as political troublemakers, social outcasts and the unwanted of society (like lepers). During the apartheid years Robben Island became internationally known for its institutional brutality. The duty of those who ran the Island and its prison was to isolate opponents of apartheid and to crush their morale. Some freedom fighters spent more than a quarter of a century in prison for their beliefs. Those imprisoned on the Island succeeded on a psychological and political level in turning a prison 'hell-hole' into a symbol of freedom and personal liberation. Robben Island came to symbolise, not only for South Africa and the African continent, but also for the entire world, the triumph of the human spirit over enormous hardship and adversity."

It sounds melodramatic, but you really feel that spirit when you're there.

Leaving Cape Town, Scott, Charlie, and Dory took the train for an astounding 9 Rand (about $1.25) and Becky and I drove to Simon's Town, the Cape's small answer to Martha's Vineyard. It's a slender town, about two blocks wide, with a navy base and a short tourist strip. We stayed in the British Hotel, which was an old fancy-pants hotel overlooking the bay. We actually rented an entire flat in the old hotel, built around a courtyard full of bougainvillea and tropical plants that were downright architectural.

Our flat was the size of New Jersey, old, huge, high ceilings, an enormous modern kitchen pouring out into the living room pouring out into the sitting room pouring out into the verandah which could seat 30 for tea. Then there was the upstairs chambers with the tile and marble and the claw foot tub and the downstairs bath and back chambers and on and on and on. I had my own wing. The British flag hanging from the stairway lended some jolly good charm. Let's have tea. I felt like somebody should have worn an ascot or something starched. The whole flat cost $65 for the five of us.

As Becky would say, Oh Darn.

While waiting for the train to arrive, Becky and I enjoyed some cold Castles in the pub next door with Henry, the pub's bulldog.

We drove down to the end of the world, the Cape of Good Hope Nature Reserve at Cape Point. Cape Point technically isn't the end of the continent but it's right across the bay from Cape Agulhas, which is. We hiked up to the lighthouse at the end of the world and looked at the stunning scenery.

Baboons were lurking between the cars being exceptionally pesky, snatching peoples lunches and looking distinctly unhealthy.

On the way back from the Cape we stopped and splashed around at Boulders Beach, home of a colony of Jackass Penguins, so named for their braying. They're awfully cute, and very tame, swimming amongst the holiday tourists.

It being Becky's birthday, we gave her her first wish, which was to not eat in a restaurant with two kids. So we had take-away pizza and excellent South African wine at home. The wine is spoiling me. Primo wine can be had for the price one would pay for a bottle to take to a pot-luck in Bellingham.

Oh Darn.