I found myself with some time to kill the other day en route to the Cape peninsula’s deep south, so I decided to spend part of the morning working in Kalk Bay.
These days one needs to smell the flowers, and take advantage of the small benefits provided by the world we live in. Because the downsides are precipitous. The marvellous thing about remote working is that one can choose an exotic foreground as well as an exotic, albeit virtual, background, provided you do some work in the location of your choosing. Otherwise, you won’t be employed for long. The rate at which employees are being herded back to the office suggests that Big Corporate is onto the truants.
The low-lying clouds, which had covered the rest of the southern suburbs like a dirty coverless duvet had cleared by the time I passed above Muizenberg on Boyes Drive. The sun revealed a line of False Bay four-foot rollers for the loafers on their long boards to cruise into shore on. The southeaster was on sabbatical, having been replaced by a northerly, which the mountains were protecting us from. The light had taken on that pure, crisp Cape quality that movie directors purr about.
On a clear day, the Kalk Bay harbour pops up into your peripheral vision, down to your left after you have reached the crest of Boyes Drive. I spent so long gazing at the idyllic view that I almost veered off the road. The blue mountains above Simon’s Town loomed in the background above a sea mist, primary-coloured fishing boats bobbed in the harbour like kids’ toys in the bath, while the green mountains balanced the picture.
I found a table at the Olympia Café with a view of the harbour. Olympia has been here since 1962 and has consciously decided that it doesn’t require any flash. It is a smallish space with an open kitchen. Posters advertising art exhibitions are stuck to the wall with Prestik. Pictures of Dalebrook tidal pool and various other local destinations are hung with clipboards.
I stared out at the boats above the screen of my laptop. Why are these boats so well styled? Is it a requirement of the fishing licence from the fisheries, forestry and environment department that the boats are painted in primary colours in a curated, tourist-driven policy borrowed from Venice. I wouldn’t put it past the City of Cape Town. They are on their game.
Two gentlemen who looked like they could be members of a local band walked past. One was in his 50s. He wore a pork pie hat, his salt and pepper hair shoulder length, loose fitting trousers and a shirt with cut-off sleeves. The other, younger chap wore tracksuit pants and a T-shirt with holes in it. Shoes had been collectively dispensed with as an unnecessary extra. They didn’t look overly concerned about the volatility of the equity markets since Donald Trump had introduced tariffs for Lesotho. My chinos and light blue button-down shirt stuck out below the table like a scratched pimple.
A few minutes later they shuddered past in a VW Beetle, which backfired twice before rounding the bend towards Clovelly. The pack of ladies enjoying a champagne breakfast in the cafe cheered.
A huddle of people with bits of grass stuck in their hair shuffled past wearing clothes made exclusively from hessian sacks. They weren’t wearing shoes either. I suspected from the reek of smoke that billowed into the cafe once they had passed, that they are a derivative sect of the Rastafarians. I made a note of trying to interview them one day.
Many people who walked past looked like they had been for a swim in the sea. They didn’t look like tourists. They were just locals who habitually go for midmorning swims and walk around barefoot because it feels good. Perhaps they are earthing.
No-one carried a designer water bottle. I didn’t see anyone clutching a vape or talking into their smartphones as if they were holding a small tray to their mouths on a flat hand. Those who required a hit of nicotine rolled their own on a bench while staring at the ocean. Unobtrusive, small cars drove past at sensible speeds. No high-powered German SUVs, blinged up in chrome mags, growled past, driven by high-specced, emaciated cougars consumed with competitive anxiety.
Dalebrook is a fine place for a swim. It is situated on the seaside of the railway line on the main road between St James and Kalk Bay. People sit or lie in the sun, pre- or post-swim, seemingly unperturbed by the pace of modern life. Old ladies swim up and down in old-fashioned swimming caps. A few punters have brought deck chairs. Someone has left an old leather armchair beside the tunnel under the railway line that leads to the pool. Who are these people? Don’t they have to work? Or have they merely opted out of the rat race, trusting that their iPhone 3 will work equally as well as the latest version that zealots on the other end of the peninsula are queuing up to upgrade to (in exchange for 28 unnecessary thousands of rand).
The train comes past occasionally in a cacophony of squeaks. The trains are new and look as though they work. Some people must commute to town in them to and from grey-suited jobs. I can’t imagine how they acclimatise, though you can walk straight into a bar at the Brass Bell from the platform of the Kalk Bay station.
Founded in 1939, the Brass Bell is an authentic ocean-side bar, restaurant and music venue. You can drink a few beers while the waves crash against the walls of the restaurant and then leap into the tidal pool to cool off on a hot day. Or you could eat a fine meal at the Theatre Restaurant before going to a show across the road at the Kalk Bay Theatre. You could also watch some decent live music. Johnny Clegg at the Brass Bell with a few beers on a sunny day would have been heaven.
The streets leading off the main roads are cobbled and narrow. Little shops sell hippie accessories, like kikois and leather sandals. Wind chimes are popular. Jane Valken does a roaring trade selling dresses she designs. I am sure you could get your fortune read here, or meet mediums of many kinds, if that is what you are into. The book shop is excellent.
Kalk Bay reminds me of a small English port town like Rye. These alleys have memories of smuggling and many other things.
Forbes magazine says it is one of the coolest neighbourhoods in the world. I am not sure about Forbes’ cool credentials in this regard, given they also publish the billionaire list. I doubt Kalk Bay would have much use for the billionaire list (or the people in them), but Forbes may well be right.
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