Save me from The World of Birds

We have now been in Cape Town for just over a month and AA has settled into his job at the University whilst The Ginger Prince and I have got ourselves into a kind of routine.

My days of route taxis are over for the moment and I can now be found taking TGP out for his morning activity in a hire car, gingerly ploughing along a variety of practiced routes that I know won’t take me onto the Freeway, whilst everything beeps at me for going too slowly.  Every week includes at least one visit to Gymboree, a kind of toddler gym, and one to Kirstenbosch Botanical Gardens. Not many places can remain tranquil once the Ginger Prince is in them but Kirstenbosch pulls it off beautifully. TGP collects sticks, paddles in streams and bothers local wildlife, whilst I sit in dappled sun at the blue green base of Table Mountain. 

Most places in Cape Town are relaxed and spacious but there are exceptions as we discovered when we visited The World of Birds in Hout Bay. Tranquil it is not. There is a never ending warren of ramshackle paths through aviaries full of literally thousands of birds from different countries bundled in together. To make the screeching and flapping even worse a colony of local wild Ibis have decided to make several huge nests on top of the expanse of chicken wire that forms the roof, giving the impression that there are so many of the creatures that they are actually blocking out the sun.

AA assured me it wasn’t cruel but, although TGP loved it of course, it gave me the creeps.

Whilst they called themselves a wildlife sanctuary the park looked like some eccentric individual’s bird and animal collection grown way, way out of control. There was probably a point in this person’s life when they could have stopped and thought, have I got enough birds in here? But they didn’t. Everywhere you look something flaps or a (wild) rat scuttles away from a bird feeder. There are also pens of multiple mammals including about 100 guinea pigs snuffling around a giant feeding bowl. It isn't that there isn't a lot to see; I particularly liked an area where tiny yellow monkeys frisk your bag for treats and play with your jewellery, but I have always thought moderation is appropriate where small animals are concerned.

TGP and AA are two of the most enthusiastic people I know and even they were shuffling feet as we traipsed through yet another circular Owl Walk and aside from AA registering his surprise that the eagle in the aviary wasn’t killing all the other birds no one said much. I became aware that we were actually walking through someone’s confused mind when we entered the Enchanted Garden which was an aviary full of literally hundreds of the kind of stone garden ornaments that can be found at any garden centre, piled up on top of each other, as well as the birds that had just happened to spill out of the other aviaries. 
The World of Birds is a modern day cautionary tale to hoarders, working on the principal that if you are going to have one of something you might as well have a hundred and fifty. The two strange notices below will allow you to make up your own minds. Suffice to say if you told me I had to live at The World of Birds in Hout Bay I would be straight back in that cupboard.

Hide and Scream

Yesterday I hunted down The Ginger Prince to investigate a suspicious silence, and found him in my room very carefully applying blusher to his bare bottom using my only make up brush.

     That is how my Saturday began.

Later, in the early evening, we lit a small Braii out on our balcony and then AA left for the shops. I often play a basic version of Hide and Seek that TGP enjoys so I ran into an obvious hiding place- inside a tiny space in his wardrobe with the door open so he could spot me.

 As normal he came giggling in and then I heard ‘’BYEEEE Mummy!!....’’ and with a sickening click he pushed the wardrobe door shut. There was no handle on the inside and the space was about five foot high and perhaps two foot wide. As time passed and I accepted that I was totally trapped I felt panic begin to rise, mostly panic on behalf of TGP who was crying and howling and banging the other side of the door and who was also in a flat with a lit Braii, but also panic for myself. Within the confines of what is essentially the dimensions of a small coffin I briefly tried to kick my way out but realised that nothing makes you panic faster than trying to get out and not being able to.

Instead I ran through all the possibilities of what might happen when AA eventually returned. I knew he didn’t have keys and hoped desperately that he would hear TGP crying and realise that something was wrong and try to get a spare set from somewhere, rather than just think we had gone to the pool or for a wander and sit and wait for us on the steps. A long time seemed to pass and poor TGP’s crying turned to whimpering as he lay outside the door. Finally, I heard AA knock gently for a while and then more urgently. I shouted to him but knew that he couldn’t hear me so then I shouted to TGP ‘’go to door and shout Daddy!! Shout Daddy!!’’ but of course he cried more and pressed against the outside of my door. More minutes passed and the landline rang ‘’Get the phone!!’’ I said to TGP through the door. I had no idea what he would say given that his repertoire of single words including ‘’star’’,‘’bubble’’ and ‘’cat’’ were unlikely to convey the information that his Mum was locked in the cupboard and his Dad was going to have to find a spare key this side of Monday, or break down the door, or get the fire brigade. Besides this would be the phone that he is usually in trouble for touching. He just cried more and more and more. And AA’s knocking stopped. The phone rang and rang, then stopped, then more knocking, then rang again. I thought that he must realise at this point something was not right but I also had the sickening knowledge that anyone within the University Accommodation who had a spare key to the flat, the cleaning people and caretakers, would not be working until Monday morning. Knocking resumed and I started shouting again, really shouting as much as I could, and again TGP redoubled his crying and then to my massive relief I heard AA’s voice inside the flat and he opened the wardrobe door.

     Of course AA had heard TGP, but not me, and had eventually gone to get one of the security guards who look after the vehicle entrance. As I suspected no one had a key but amid general panic AA  went to the next door flat and shimmied round the wall that separates our two balconies.

     I have never considered myself to be claustrophobic but it took me a while to get my breath and calm down, and it felt like I was trapped for hours, even though it can’t have been much more than 35 minutes. TGP, who had been by far the most upset I have ever heard him, was absolutely fine. He sat happily eating popcorn in front of The Night Garden as if nothing had happened. 

To Pick and Pay or to Shoprite

In the last few weeks we have learned a bit about shopping in Cape Town.

AA has studied receipts obsessively and, after being shocked at the price of some Port-Salut early on, has made an effort not to buy anything imported. I didn’t actually witness this very expensive cheese sighting but I think the gist was that it was a lot of money for a very, very little piece of cheese. Pampers are also so expensive here that I may have to consider popping TGP in some local brand nappies and accepting the consequences.

The name Woolworths can be seen everywhere in Cape Town and whilst in the UK it is synonymous with failure and recession here it is all about luxury shopping. It is like a large, air conditioned, deli with high quality products and small(ish) queues.

Pick and Pay and Shoprite, the two local supermarkets competing for the average Capetonian’s custom, are much busier. If you look hard you can find most things you get at home but if you are careless you could easily end up going home with a big bag of frozen chicken necks.

I am not one for the totally-organic marketing around kids food in Britain and generally think that Heinz Biscotti are just more expensive Rich Tea biscuits etc but I realise that here I am going to have to start reading labels. Anything processed that might be vaguely appealing to children is sizzling with additives like Tartrazine that have disappeared from most kid’s food in the UK many years ago as they make children hyperactive. And if there is one thing I don’t need it’s TGP becoming more hyperactive.

 As you would imagine local food like fruit is fresh and cheap and amazing. We also had some fresh Kingslip fish that we bought in Hout Bay the other day at Fish 4 Africa, a wholesaler to the public. It was one of those places where they don’t mind shouting and slapping a big scaly tail around and where you feel a little silly asking for it to be gutted and filleted. All worth it though.

In terms of non-food shopping there seems to be an array of African artefacts at every touristy market that include carved ostrich eggs, bright fabrics and wooden giraffes. They are colourful and lively but not totally my thing. There is every chance that whilst waiting at traffic lights (called Robots here) some entrepreneur will offer you a range of items skilfully made of beads. But there is really good stuff to be had though amongst the market stalls in the less touristy areas. I spotted a few interesting items whilst looking for an illusive gift for a friend in the Long Street markets but didn’t have time to get stuck in.

Today was AA’s first day in work so TGP and I braved public transport and got a route taxi into town. Route taxis are mini-buses with side sliding doors that beep their way along given routes around Cape Town whilst a guy leans out of the window and shouts their destination. When they stop at lights the shouter gets out and touts for business and he quickly folded our buggy and popped us in. People say Britain has gone ‘’health and safety mad’’ but I can’t imagine the same has been said about Cape Town. The route taxis swing around corners, more often than not with the sliding door left open. TGP himself was delighted with the journey; constant beeping, windows down and music playing loud.

We were spat out at the Route taxi depot above the train station which was as un-buggy-friendly as a place can be with hundreds of beeping mini-buses, a whole lot of shouting and no pavement. In the absence of AA, my map and I had to make our way into Cape Town and we managed it. We had coffee and scones in The Scotch House, a little sheltered courtyard where TGP was able to safely potter about and point at ants. Then in our individual ways (me by looking at the art work, TGP by fiddling with the air vents) we absorbed a small exhibition of paintings done by black artists during the apartheid years. Long Street called me with its small boutiques full of light print dresses but TGP was having none of it so we took the train home. Cape Town station is big and shiny and airport like, having had a major facelift for the World Cup.

So I have got a vague outline of town in my mind but to really get to grips with Long Street and a strip of boutique and antique shops that run along the sea front in Kalk Bay I will need a day off from The Ginger Prince.