We've been in Cape Town two weeks now yet it feels much longer and I guess that means we have settled into the rhythm of summer in the southern hemisphere. I try to walk on the slopes of Table Mountain, in Newlands forest, early each morning while Tim often bikes to work after breakfast.
The students arrived ten days ago and the Stanford program is in full swing. We had a very interesting musical "Welcome Dinner" last Saturday at Solms-Delta wine estate, at the Fyndraai restaurant, enjoying the first of their summer concerts. Solms-Delta's farm band played a set followed by a group called Tribal Echo and the students danced up a storm winning four of the five prizes of Cape Jazz Shiraz, a low alcohol bubbly.
Another musical highlight came this week at the Baxter Theatre, the Kalahari Karoo Blues. The incredible David Kramer brought 5 musicians together, two from the Cape, three from Botswana, for a remarkable evening of cross-cultural music. He interspersed each act with video footage of past performers from his Karoo Kitaar Blues show that Tim & I saw a few years ago. Some well known youtubers were on stage; spoon slide guitarist Hannes Coetzee and upside-down guitarist Ronnie Moipolai. One act I was particularly drawn to was the song written by David Kramer, sung by one of the Sonskyn Susters in his band - Calvinia.
On my walk this morning I was reminded of an exceptional encounter I had with my three Jack Russell terriers on the exact trail I still follow today. I wrote about it then, in 1997, and here is what I had to say:
On
a balmy summer day I was taking a carefree walk along the woodcutter's trail when
suddenly all three dogs tore uphill, barking furiously. I, not quite as
nimble, hurried breathlessly after them and as I drew near noticed their
upturned heads, barking at the trees. “Oh no, not all this fuss for squirrels. How
annoying” I thought and started sorting through their leashes, planning to attach lines of
discipline to their collars. Something made me look up and there in the fork of
a tree, a little bit higher than my head and about 15 metres away, a caracal
(commonly called lynx) stared right back at me. Panic-stricken, I looked down to grab the dogs. If
they were in my arms I would surely be safe. But no, delighted that I now stood
guard over their prey, they were hunting other members of this
fearsome family. I don’t think I have ever experienced such a mixture of
terror, awe and incredulity. I was so close to the path where people walk daily
and there I was, face to face (almost) with this secretive and rarely seen wild
cat. Miraculously the dogs returned to me, allowed me to
quietly attach their leads and walk in docile silence down the hill, back to the car to return to the
clatter of civilization.
Returning abruptly to 2013, I no longer walk with dogs but their feisty little terrier spirits are with me as I wander the same trails.
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