crowded cities tend to be the loneliest. which is funny, because are we ever alone?
I went to Cape Town for the first time this year and I could wax lyrical about my newfound fixation with the city. I acknowledge that I barely scratched the surface of this city, but give me grace — I was only in the Cape for about 80 hours.
Of all the places I got to see, the promenade along the Atlantic may be one of my favourite places in the world. I take it that many feel the same, the many people taking walks along the Waterfront and strolls in Sea Point proved that. While the fish-filled scent of the ocean air should be enough to turn your nose up at, I’d take the breeze over Johannesburg’s rushed, heavy air at altitude. It was the refreshment I had so desperately desired, and this walk kept showing me that in all our differences, we seemed to find a quiet kind of comfort in the same spot by the sea.
I never care to hold ‘Tumblr words’ close to mind, but this was where the concept of sonder truly landed on me. I will try to phrase it as best as I can for you, but essentially, it’s the recognition that every other person you encounter, you pass by, is as layered and complex as you yourself are. And it took travelling a thousand kilometers away from home to fully grasp this.
The day before my first half-marathon, I thought to squeeze in a warm up run as the sun came down. also to bask in the oddity of the sun still peeping out at seven p.m. I’ll never get over the marvel of being able to watch Skeem Saam while the sun is fully out – Cape Town is laced. And while I’m not one for people watching, the crashing waves and the bit of quiet in this part of the city bode as some sort of invitation. To take in the air, to think about the race plan for tomorrow, and somehow, to peer into the lives of strangers — a gallery I hadn’t intended to enter but couldn’t resist.
One couple was sitting together. Coloured. Early forties, they both must be. arguing. She had more of the fire in the exchange, paying no mind to the many strangers surrounding them. Both seemed worn — this was clearly not their first fight, either about this or anything else. He was pleading with her, softly — his body did most of the talking. It wasn’t an infidelity situation from what I made out. Finances, I think. They don’t have enough. It’s getting to breaking point, and their current jobs are paying nowhere near enough. It’s taking its toll on them.
Four women, a mix of coloured and black, in their mid twenties. They were beaming, and the sunset over Table Bay only highlighted how incredible their skin looked. They looked stunning, and they knew this, hence the giddiness when taking photos of each other. Donning various shades of nude-coloured niqabs, they took the breeze in their stride and the sunset as a gift.
And then a guy. With a girl. Xhosa. Skipping the benches, they opted for a lie on the lawns. They brought a speaker with them. Pizza picnic while they were at it. Sandals to the side and laughs towards the sky. i’m not calling their situation perfect, but my God, they aren’t too far off. Not a care in the world, and with a view like this — who would entertain any?
The French couple I bumped into were cute. Pushing into their 70s, I knew that they were both retired and that their pensioned Euros would do them a world of good in this city. It’s tilted in their favour, of course. They aren’t too far from their tour group, a horde of twenty similarly aged folks, binoculars and cameras slung from their necks.
The breakwater stretch is my favourite part of the walk. It’s stunning, even though it’s the windiest part of the walk. I pretend to be unfazed, but the Cape winds are just a different element entirely. A guy, surely no older than 25, was cycling down, accepting the wind as a welcome push, I guess. I saw him for the shortest time, but funnily enough, I think about him the most. Probably because he’s the only one I spoke to on this walk. He commented on my running attire. A joke. I don’t do well with strangers, particularly when they throw jabs at me. But I smiled — it’s the warmest anyone has been to me since I arrived here. I retorted, and he responded with a laugh so bright and unguarded, I can still hear if I think about it carefully. It was fleeting. He was on his bicycle, and a part of me hoped we spoke for a while longer. He would have been the first friend I made in this pseudo-European city. I wish he stopped for a while.
But he didn’t turn around. I watched him cycle further down the walkway, against a backdrop of a golden Table Bay that was giving way to a dazzling navy, and the biting chill in the air made me feel as out of place as I had on my first walk here.
I think about the bicycle guy a lot. I don’t know why, but I’ve wondered so much about him. What his name is. What he likes. What cycling near the ocean does for him. I know I won’t ever know more past that brief interaction, one I feel I should’ve left behind when he cycled into a corner and out of sight forever. But somehow I’m here, sitting with the thoughts of this guy on a bicycle.
I’ll hold on to the thoughts of all these people for a long time. How they looked, what they must have been feeling, and how life will still, regardless of how they got home that day, keep moving.
Life keeps moving, at whatever pace it decides. It won’t relax for anybody. Not back home, not here in Cape Town. Not for the Swedes on the yachts, the Germans in front of me in the Pick n Pay, or the Zimbabwean Uber driver who took a wrong turn in the city centre and got us in Woodstock instead of the Waterfront.
Not for the Coloured Uber Driver who took me to Camps Bay, down Kloof Road, spoke with fondness, his eyes lighting up with the pride of his home city, Cape Town, but then also immediately lost that light when explaining most of this city would probably remain foreign to him. “It costs too much to enjoy my own home. Can you fucking imagine?”
And now, I think there’s a part of me that could imagine it. There is a part of me that fully grasps that we all keep moving, with stories laden with layers. There is a part of me that grasps that as humans, we are a puzzle of the people we meet and the experiences we have.
And now, suddenly, I’m paying more attention to the puzzle pieces the strangers added to us.
Told By Tshepi. 