Carol’s Column

Everyone trying to be someone else on Cape beaches

This country really is something. I mean, where else would you find a heavy south-easter blowing its guts out and whirling with it a woman's Dolly Partonblonde wig, side-flicks and all?

This happened at Muizenberg in the Cape last week, and before you could say "yo" the whole beach was cavorting after the wig, flying free as Nelson Livingstone Seagull above.

It was a Gautie who leapt into the air and caught it with a magnificent movement.

"That's Jomo Sono," said an elderly grandmother from under her umbrella, up to her armpits in cooler bags filled with chicken legs, bagels and shining thinly-sliced brisket wrapped around pickled cucumbers.

"Gran, what do you know about Jomo Sono?" queried her grandson, who might have been five years old.

"That's not Jomo Sono, he's much bigger, and anyway, he's not a goalie.

"Why do you say it's Jomo Sono?"

"Well, he's black isn't he?" replied his grandmother with not a little asperity.

The beach was deliciously rainbow coloured with everyone trying for something else.

Blacks under umbrellas and covered in blockout, whites frying themselves black with coconut oil, and the coloureds amused by it all.

"Ag they all want to look like us browns," said the guy beside me whose name was Roly - "from all the time I spent in Roeland Street jail when I was young", he grinned.

"I was the best car thief in Cape Town in those days.

"Today it's not a decent profession. There was no violence then.

"I sommer nicked a lonely car in the street at night just begging to be stolen.

"There was none of this gun business."

Today Roly is a commodity dealer (his words).

"I can get you anything you want for a good price," he offered charmingly.

"A Rolex, a TV, the latest little zoom camera, a nice diamond ring. It'll cost you next to nothing."

We stayed in Green Point, opposite the stadium, home of the ongoing ever-merry Coon Carnival.

"Look at those minstrels," I heard an American tourist enthuse.

"Aren't they just too cute?"

"We're not minstrels," said one almost dancing on her feet. "We're coons, Cape coons.

"What's with this 'minstrel' kak?"

So much for PC and all that jazz.

On Monday we drove home via Bloemfontein, and I can't believe the car accident rate is so high, because on our run, everyone was so well behaved.

Slower vehicles and huge trucks moved to the side, and drivers flashed lights or waved courteously.

One thing marred my holiday. In the old days, the white regime worried about being taken over by communists or worse.

Huh. There is a "swart gevaar" and it's called a cell phone.

I didn't mind the queues, the traffic jams, the less-than-good-food at rip-off prices.

It was the constant ring of cell phones that got to me.

On the beaches, the winelands, in restaurants, supermarkets, at pavement cafes and even the Baxter Theatre, these machines have taken over.

I'd climbed to the top of Table Mountain and was gazing at the view, when, above the sound of my panting, I heard a cell phone ring.

"Hello, Skattie, this is

Pumpkin Face," said a loud voice.

"You'll never guess where you've caught me.

"I'm standing at the top of Table Mountain and it's sheer heaven."

Pumpkin Face, whoever he may be, does not know how nearly, how very, very nearly, he was almost on his way to Hell.

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