On October 13th a piece appeared on IOL entitled “Cape Town, you can keep your mountain.” In it, the writer launched into a critique of Cape Town (vs. Durban) and - perhaps unintentionally? – raised a virtual tsunami of irate reader responses.
I can’t imagine the writer actually meant to offend, more likely to amuse. But people are clearly sensitive about their hometown; and in the run-up to 2010, the general consensus seems to be that we don’t need any Brits, Yanks, Finns etc. reading negative comments about South Africa, written by South Africans. It’s important to say nice things only, so they all come here with their holiday pocket money next year.
It would probably not behove* me, then – here on top of my majestic, world famous Table Mountain – to sink to the level of a silly tit-for-tat retort in defence of the Mother City. Yet as someone who 'semigrated' from Durban to the Cape three years ago, perhaps I can simply outline why I love with this place – and why I haven’t missed dear old Durbs for a minute.
I lived in Durban for a decade, give or take. Or so says my diary. Unfortunately I myself can’t remember most of it, so it’s quite lucky I kept the diary. All I really remember is being 22 and full of beans, arriving for the first time at Morningside’s artiest bar. Then suddenly I was 32 and full of tequila, gazing at my receding hairline in one of the ornate mirrors. I became beset by a horrible vision, of being 42, 67…Clint Eastwood-aged… and still sitting in the same bar, getting older next to the same regulars, in the same old never-changing city.
In a panic, I fell off my bar stool, sprinted home erratically and told my wife we were moving to San Francisco in 7 minutes. We checked on our savings and decided to opt for San Fran Lite instead – Cape Town. It’s pretty much as nice as San Fran, and it was cheaper for us to move to. That night, as I inhaled mozzies, fended off ghost geckos, dripped sweat and envisioned the N2 unfurling away into our Atlantic-moistened future, the despairing cry of a drinking hole regular from earlier that evening echoed in my ears…”But wait!” he had cried as I had barged my way out, between pretend-hippies, trend forecasters and graphic designers, “Durban’s about to explode …plode …ode…”
Not blow up, obviously. Obviously. The inebriated sage simply meant that Durban was, through his beer goggles, obviously on the cusp of massive growth, world city status, a new phase of dynamism – maybe even a new, African-born Renaissance movement! Trouble was, I had been hearing this for a decade by the time we left. Durban doesn’t change much; it just is.
The roads might get confusing new names; one restaurant may close while another opens (the Debbin crowd is notoriously fickle), Indian Mynahs are born, learn to talk and die laughing - but not much else happens by the slow, lukewarm sea. Nothing happens at all. The needle returns to the start of the song, and we all sing along like before… Sorry. Drifted into a Del Amitri fugue state there. How about Morrissey on Durban, then: Every day is like Sunday… every day is silent and grey…(certainly in September, it is).
All right, look, I promised not to try and “get Durban back” here. Can I tell you something? We probably automatically criticise the places we once lived in, because it helps heal the secret, little “I miss it” ache inside. For example, relatives of mine who moved to London can’t stop being smug about it and dissing Africa all the time, over their ebony hand-carved Zambian table with Zulu bead tablecloth. But I know – I know – they miss the rains down in Africa.
And Durban was good to me, I admit. It gave me lasting friends (who I’m now trying to lure to Cape Town); my beautiful wife, and a tendency to say “fush” ( fish), “laak” (like) and “God, I wish they would ban those bloody fireworks.”
And Durban boasts scenery just as dramatic and starkly beautiful as the Cape’s. There’s the towering cream monolith of the Pavilion, with thousands of souped up, tinted-window cars twinkling charmingly in its sun-melted parking lots. There’s that Christmasy casino on Battery Beach (probably visible from the Moon). Or who can overlook Windermere Centre; that large brown tribute to 70’s architecture that so winsomely blocks the sea view, for everyone from Morningside to Kokstad? And look! Durbanites even have that…hill thingy. The Bluff? The Buff? Not tabular, nor mountainous - but it’s something.
Each to their own, hey. A friend of mine recently moved to Durban and says she “smaaks” it (likes it. Laaks it). I moved to Cape Town and started saying Hout Ba-ay. You can’t really compare places. Well you can, but it will probably end in tears and hair-pulling. However – and this must be mentioned – don’t you get tired of people saying that Cape Town is “not African enough”? What an inane comment. We’re very African. We probably have many, many more Kenyans, Malawians and Zimbabweans than Durban does, for one thing. And we have Mzoli’s. Cape Town is a heaving calabash of pan-African dynamism. Once I even saw Helen Zille toyi-toying somewhere, in the run-up to the elections (we love Helen here. She keeps our city clean and our libraries natty. Whereas, last time I checked, Durban needed a shower and a shave and only half of the traffic lights worked).
Another thing: it’s a really obvious ploy to lambaste Capetonians for having Table Mountain, as if we put it here and can’t stop staring at it. Look, it’s not our fault that “Table Mountain is among the final 28 sites competing for a spot in the New 7 Wonders of Nature.” http://www.iol.co.za/index.php?set_id=1&click_id=180&art_id=iol1253721151385M535. I may be wrong, but I don’t think I saw North Beach on there. We actually have hundreds of mountains in Cape Town, anyway. Would you like one, Durban? We’ll even throw in a wine farm or two, on its glossy slopes. Or are you happy with le Buff? And your cute little sharks, as opposed to our awe-inspiring Great Whites? Want one of our oceans, perhaps? We’ve got two, so help yourself.
Oh! That reminds me. Must remember to lobby the D.A. again, re my big plan to dynamite the Cape Peninsula entirely away from the mainland. Genius. Being an island has worked very well for Mauritius. And if us Kaapenaars are to be constantly viewed as being stubbornly insular, ignorant and non-African, maybe we should make it literally so, and simply paddle the whole of the Cape metropole over the Atlantic to Brazil. Like us, those chaps enjoy a good beach party. We’ll fit right in, there. You’ll miss us, Durban – and our Mountain™! We’ll also take with us our distinguished history, unique fynbos, cultural festivals, road manners (except the taxis), Kirstenbosch concerts, Minki van der Westhuizen and Greyton (the Cape’s best little town).
Look, there’s no need to take any of this “my city is better than your city” nonsense too seriously. I’m just poking a little fun at Dirtbin (feels like poking a bee hive with a Protea branch). I embraced that sweaty city for a whole decade, so there must have been a reason. Probably the bacon rolls at Saturday morning’s Essenwood Flea market. I hope a tsunami of irate responses from Durban readers won’t rain on my Kaapse Klopse parade now. Probably too late.
Maybe it will rain fush instead.
* Love that word
© Gareth Pike 2009
