It was cool, cool, it was all just cool - well almost. Now it's over for me and it's over for you. That is the December vacation, stupid.
Matchbox 20 was one of my last CD's in the player during the last two days of this vacation. That was before the Audi Symphony ate my John Lennon CD. Imagine. Such a cool CD, now it just hides in there and doesn't play and doesn't come out again. And so the vacation ended. Oh yes, and there was the parking fine this past Sunday on Beach Road in the Strand. Hideous! Municipal parking is by convention free in South Africa on Sundays and after business hours. It's pure gouging of holiday makers. I shall protest.
Christmas in Langebaan with my older sister and her in-law family was quiet but pleasant. There was no family brawl. Splendid. That was my aim with picking that side of the family for Christmas - avoiding a brawl, I mean. But Langebaan was way too quiet for New Year's Eve. I went to Mossel Bay for that party.
Finding a spot to stay in Mossel Bay over the festive season can prove a daunting challenge, mostly won by throwing lots of dosh after the problem. I won by catching cancellations and last minute deals. And a lucky admin flop at the travel agency worked in my favour.
This year law and order seemed to be the new deal in South Africa. We had more police on the streets than ever before outside of those notorious political riots of the 70's and 80's. The traffic police descended upon the public with a right vengeance. Drink drive was definitely out over the festive season. One could expect to be stopped and take a turn at the breathalyser. A mate of a nephew of mine spent the night of 2 January in jail for drink driving. I decided prudence was the better part of valour and walked the distance between the pubs and my lodge.
New Year's Eve was a bit of a disappointment. In fact, it was a rip-off too. Given the said frantic police action in the least crime-invested part of South Africa, I picked a club in town, within walking distance, rather than risk the more promising hot spot some 5 km up the coast. The club charged a ridiculous R50 for cover and things only livened up at 02h00 on 1 Jan. And then it was mostly red-necks that pitched up. Bummer.
But the discovery of Cafe Havana made up for the lost New Year's Eve. What a delightfully eclectic joint that turned out to be. One could expect Edith Piaf to pitch up at the piano at any moment amongst pictures of Chez Guevara. A bit anachronistic, I admit, but strictly no red-necks here - such ambience was as holy water to the likes of such undead wretches.
But time ran out and I took another turn in Langebaan. The vacation was running out. A quick night out to Zizzi's exposed another side to that quiet town: The West Coast Fight Club. Some chap at the bar called me to declare that his dubious chick had made the most astounding claim of the evening: That I would level her dubious boy-friend with one blow. Flabbergasted, I was. And then Mr Pick-a-fight insisted that I prove her right, at which point I sided with prudence and wafted off, to have my beer in some quiet corner. Am I part of this culture? was the question I pondered with some bewilderment for some remainder of the evening.
This vacation saw the replacement of my mobile phone for the fourth time in as many years. Each year for the past four years my phone had been stolen with tedious regularity in South Africa. This latest affirmative shopping spree happened in Cape Town at a busy dance club for people of alternative persuasion and other interesting fellows. In fact, I noticed the two culprits, confronted them and failing the preferred outcome, set the bouncers upon them. But to no avail - one briefly disappeared just before the bouncers rounded up both and must have passed the phone out of the club. Two days of replacement shopping and admin followed. Bollocks! Bloody bollocks!
The vacation was concluded with a last night at a camp site in a rather pretty coastal town, called Hermanus. Nice weather, nice surroundings, nice club. Terrible neighbours with screaming babies the next morning at 0600 and most terrible sun that turned my tent into a sauna at 0830. The drive home across two lovely mountain passes, Houw Hoek and Sir Lowry's, restored my decorum. That was before the parking ticket at the beach sank my sense of humour. Bloody hell!
So today was the first day. The working year should not start on a Monday. That way there are fives days of slow slaughter to endure. "Tell me why I don't like Mondays. I want to shoot the whole day down."
