24 Frames of Light

Motion pictures for general release are photographed and conventionally shown at 24 frames per second. This frame rate limits the quality of presentation to the viewers of such motion pictures, due to the impartation of artefacts such as grain, image instability and flicker.

There is a problem.

I have 15 minutes before the gate closes for my connecting flight to Cape Town. I’m waiting to collect my luggage at the OR Tambo International airport in Johannesburg and there seems to be a hold-up. I ask a bored airline assistant if I’ll make my flight; disinterested, she tells me there’s still time. Finally, my luggage appears on the carousel and I grab it and rush for the exit. I have to make my way to the inland departure terminal and check in again, but the signs to the domestic terminal are hidden behind construction boards which seem to be everywhere. I spot a despondent passenger slumped on the floor next to a mountain of luggage and ask him where the domestic terminal is.

“Straight ahead,” he shrugs.

I begin to run dragging my luggage through a sea of African faces milling outside. It’s chaos and I’m bobbing and weaving through the crowd as fast as I can. Behind me I hear someone trying to catch my attention; a rogue porter wants to carry my luggage for an exorbitant tip. I have no time for these negotiations and pick-up my pace. My shirt is wet with sweat and I’m breathing hard. I can hardly speak when I get to the check-in desk.

“Cape Town,” is all I can manage when the check-in clerk looks up at me. She’s seen it many times before I suspect. I don’t know what it is with airports and construction and bad signage that conspires against you no matter where you are.

“The gate closes in 4 minutes,” she says handing me back my passport. Her tone suggests a challenge.

I begin to run again. Departures are on the third floor. I bound up the escalators; taking two steps at a time, swinging round, up the next one and the next one and the next one. At the top I see a queue at security, but run to the front desperate to get through. Everybody is eyeballing me, but I don’t care. I’m determined to make my flight. My departure gate is at the end of a long corridor, quite literally the furtherest point possible from the international terminal. By now I’m sprinting down the corridor to find the passengers have already started boarding the flight. I get there just in time. Exhausted, I’m about to collapse.

I’m going home.

It’s been a long time since I last called South Africa home. For the last decade I wandered around Europe waiting for life to start. In London, I stumbled into a career and grew comfortable with life forgetting what it’s like to be under the hot African sun. I became accustomed to the grey skies and the low-lying houses in their neat little rows and the small spaces inside. It’s not that I didn’t enjoy London though. I did, but I grew bored.

I earned enough money to buy a get-out-of-jail-free card for about 4 weeks a year and I travelled a lot, until one night I found myself on the beach in Tamarin Bay, Mauritius. I was walking back home after a party and I decided to sit on the sand for a while and watch the luminescence of the waves running up the shore. From across the bay I could faintly hear the remnants of the party: people were laughing, the music was playing and someone started to sing along in a slurry voice. They were at that point in a party where people are too drunk to be having fun and I was glad to have left.

Suddenly before me a huge fireworks display erupted into the night sky from the opposite side of the bay. It started to rain reds and blues and all the colours of the rainbow. The sounds of the explosions were muted and delayed, nothing more than a gentle popping sound. It was beautiful.

I could live here if I want.

It was just a thought. But I knew it was also a choice. Somewhere in the back of my mind I realised that my life in London wasn’t a dress rehearsal for the real thing - it was the real thing. I had to make a choice and so I left for a better life in South Africa.

“Can you recommend anything for us to see in Cape Town?” asked the elderly couple seated next to me.

They were an amiable couple from Seattle. It was their first time in Africa and they were excited about the trip. I was going to suggest Table Mountain, but it seemed kind of foolish. It was on the cover of their guidebook and it would be like recommending the Empire State building to a tourist in New York. It’s too obvious, and besides it’s not considered cool for people from Cape Town to talk about the mountain. Its flat tabletop and rolling cloud cover can speak for itself. It doesn’t need people to rapture about its beauty. You only need to see the mountain and you’ll understand. It dominates the city's skyline, and much like the stars, you can take your bearings from it when you travel around the city.

I give up. I realise how little I know about the place. I tell them I’m not from Cape Town and that I haven’t lived in South Africa for some time. They’re curious now and start firing questions at me. Soon the story becomes too complicated and I’m tired. I suggest they do a wine tour.

“Apparently the wine is really good,” I say. I don’t really know. I know nothing about wine. I can’t stay awake and drift off to sleep.

“Cabin crew please prepare for landing. Welcome, to Cape Town everyone. We’ll be touching down in less than 10 minutes,” announces the pilot over the radio. We’re circling around the city and below I can see some small beaches sitting like washed-up shells along the shore.

It feels good to be home.

Like a stone returning to the quarry from which it’s hewn, there is something inevitable about it: as if I was fighting fate all along; resisting life, struggling to stay away, struggling to fit in somewhere I don’t belong like an awkward ornament on the mantelpiece purchased from some faraway country on an exotic holiday.

I booked a taxi before I left and I find the driver standing in the terminal reception area holding up a paper sign with my name spelt wrong. I figure the taxi driver must be in his late fifties, pale and paunch. I notice his long fingernails. We get in the car and he starts talking to me. He seems surprised that I’m coming back. His daughter is overseas and she’s never coming back.

“There is no future for her in this country,” he says, “since they took over everything has gone downhill. In the old days there used to be a little bit of corruption, but now the corruption is in the hundreds of millions of Rands.”

I groan inside. It’s too early for me to be having this conversation. I paid for a taxi ride not an opinion. I try to change the subject, but it doesn’t work. All I want to do is sit in silence. I don’t understand why so many people have an aversion to silence.

We drive past the sprawling townships of Guguletu and Langa. They look like mushrooming shantytowns burgeoning with human existence. I see people walking around carrying buckets. I wonder which shack is theirs. The shacks all seem so fragile, pieced together with corrugated iron and bits of sheet metal like a house of cards ready to fall down. I can hardly believe they survive Cape Town’s notoriously fierce wind. The taxi driver tells me the government is building small concrete houses for the residents in an effort to move them before the country hosts the World Cup football competition. It seems like an impossible task I tell him.

At long last we get to my Mom’s home in Fish Hoek, a quiet suburb 40 minutes drive from Cape Town. She lives with my Grandmother in a neat little house near the back of town. If you stand in the corner of the garden you can see the mountainside. It’s warm and pretty.

My Mom and Gran are so happy to see me.

They are walking down the driveway to greet me. It makes me feel guilty for being away so long, but our family has always been like this - travelling from one continent to the other, always on the move like restless gypsies. My Mom makes me some tea. I see that she is shaking a little more than the last time I saw her. Know one knows what’s causing it; even the neurologist couldn’t diagnose it. I watch her carry the teacup with her shaky hands while she takes small steps forward. The cup begins to rattle on the saucer. I can see the tea just about to tip over the edge. I’m transfixed by this, curious to see if she’s going to drop the whole thing.

For the next two days I sleep, and watch TV, and read the newspapers. A stream of depressing news hits me from everywhere. It seems like the government has dropped the ball on pretty much everything and now marauding machete-wielding mobs are on the hunt for foreigners in a frenzy of xenophobic violence. The body count has hit 30 and the TV flashes images of widespread looting and dead bodies being moved about like heavy sacks of potatoes. The newspapers carry a photo of a Mozambican man who was burned alive. He has that haunted look on his face of a man who knows he won’t live to see tomorrow.

My elder sister comes to see me and tells me how two burglars tried to break into her home. My niece hit the panic button and locked herself in the toilet. The armed response company arrived 4 minutes later along with the police and an ambulance for good measure. The burglars fled on foot but were never caught.

“We’ve put razor wire on top of the perimeter fence now. We’re also going to get another two dogs; for extra protection you know,” says my sister. I suggest electric fencing and ask myself where it will all end.

I decide to phone a good friend of mine to let him know I’m back in town.

“Come into town tonight. We’re having a potjiekos competition,” Nevin says.

“At what time?” I ask.

“We’ve started already. Just get in your car and come in man.”

And so I drive into town via Chapman’s Peak, a spectacular mountain pass carved into a cliff, which drops off into the Atlantic Ocean. The road takes me into Hout Bay and passed Llandudno and the ever-trendy Camps Bay before winding into Clifton, an exclusive suburb popular with wealthy foreigners.

By now the evening sun is melting into the sky to create a rich canvas of purple and red as I drive into the city. It distracts me and I forget which road I must turnoff on and end up doubling back to find myself in the middle of the city stuck behind an old African man walking in the road pulling along a big fridge balanced precariously on a shopping trolley. I’m tempted to hoot to see what he does, but realise he doesn’t have that many options and it’s not like he’s going to speed up or anything. I wait for an opening in the lane next to me. Eventually it comes and I pull out.

I find a parking spot and a car guard approaches me for a few Rands to watch my car. Car guards are everywhere in Cape Town. They are poor and unemployed and will watch your car in return for a small tip. I think of it as an unofficial unemployment tax. It’s a grim way to make a living, but they have little choice.

The party is heaving when I get there.

I make my way onto the balcony overlooking the street below. Groups of people are making potjiekos, a traditional South African meal where stew is prepared in a cast iron, three-legged pot. Crowds of people are gathered around the open bar, bottles of wine and champagne sit on tables everywhere. I find Nevin in the crowd and he introduces me to a few people. Everyone is so friendly and unreserved, I’m not used to it anymore.

I meet people from everywhere; Cape Town seems to be full of expatriates and relocated South Africans. There are people from Germany, Zimbabwe, Malawi, and French speakers from the Ivory Coast. Everyone has a story, some have returned to South Africa from places like London and Sydney; others have simply come to find work.

The party starts to get louder and a waiter is walking around with shot glasses of Jagermeister. I go to the toilet and find the walls are made of one-way glass. You can see everything happening in the bar area from inside the toilet. It’s unnerving at first and a girl comes up to the toilet I’m in and presses her face against the glass to see if there is anyone in it. It reminds me of a peep show and I turn my back just in case she can see something.

Nevin introduces me to a tall, lanky guy, “Gary, a musician,” he says.

I ask Gary what kind of music he plays.

“I’m a singer songwriter in the style of John Mayer.” he replies.

It seems like he’s quite well known in Cape Town. I struggle to make conversation with him and all the questions are going one way. It’s clear he’s not interested in talking or even being polite and I feel like telling him look dude you haven’t hit superstardom just yet so get in line. I sometimes question if these people will look back on their life when they hit 60 and wonder why they had to behave like such a twat. A girl rushes up to him.

“I wasn’t sure if it was really you,” she gushes.

Gary beams in response. She goes on to say he should charge to come to events like this. This is my cue to leave and I go.

It’s late at night and I take a slow drive back to Fish Hoek passing the southern suburbs and the wealthy neighbourhoods of Constantia and Bishopscourt with their stately homes and large manicured gardens hidden behind high walls. I then turn into Ou Kaapse Weg, a scenic mountain road that elevates me over a million shimmering lights burning like holy candles far into the distance. Only the hum of the engine breaks the silence and the roads are empty. There is something peaceful about it and I feel totally relaxed.

The next evening I pick up Claire, an attractive English free-spirited hippy girl with a penchant for bracelets and community living. I’ve known her for a few years and she always surprises me with her opinions. I met her at a fancy dress party several years ago when she started waving her wand at me. I’m not sure what she wished for, but we became friends.

We go to the Polana Hotel in Kalk Bay, a quaint fishing village 10 minutes drive from Fish Hoek. The hotel has a bar and restaurant area with large French windows overlooking the ocean. When the tide comes in the waves splash onto the windows. There are large leather couches everywhere and a fire is going. The atmosphere is cosy and we sit and chat and drink some wine.

Or she drinks wine and I drink lime and lemonade. I have to drive.

“You know what this world needs is more female energy,” explains Claire.

“What a relief Claire. For a while I thought you were going to say more taxes.”

“Seriously, there needs to be more female energy to counter all that negative male energy.”

“Oh I get it. You mean like the Spice Girls, girl power and all that stuff?” I say.

Claire is not amused. I decide to get her another glass of wine. Perhaps she can drink me interesting. I thought being a hippy was all about free love and fun. They’ve all become so serious these days.

By now the bar has started to fill up and a band unpacks its instruments. The crowd seems to be far more laid back than last night. There are pretty girls in floral dresses and bearded surfers in shorts, flip-flops and torn t-shirts. I can see some old weather beaten fishermen soaked to the bone with whisky and ice trying hard not to spill their drinks. Everyone is smiling and laughing.

On the way to the bar I meet a sweet blond girl with short-cropped hair. She tells me she’s spent the day shooting a TV advert in Kalk Bay’s small picturesque fishing harbour. The production crew have all come out for a party. We get squashed in the crowd and she whispers something in my ear.

“What did you say?” I ask. The band has started to play and I can hardly hear her.

“I like your t-shirt,” she whispers a little louder.

I don’t want to be rude to Claire so I decide to head back to our table with her glass of wine. I find her in an animated conversation with the group sitting next to us. They are shouting at each other over the music; they are discussing something about cooking oil and animal fat. Someone turns to me and asks my opinion. I tell them I don’t cook, or eat, and that I’m saving myself for the animals one day. One of the girls in the group almost laughs, but the group’s energy has turned against me, branding me an outcast, an enfant terrible, and she’s not brave enough to laugh without the approval of her friends. Claire is glaring at me.

The band is singing 80s cover songs and people are dancing on the couches. Everyone is singing along and swaying and knocking over drinks. It’s madness and I’m not in the mood for this so I decide to leave after our drinks.

It’s Saturday morning.

I’m supposed to meet Gavin for a surf at Big Bay when he calls me up.

“There is a surf competition on. We’ll have to call it off. Do you want to meet me tonight for the rugby instead? The Stormers are playing the Waratahs from Australia. The company I’m going to start working for has a corporate box and they gave me some tickets. There will be free food and booze.”

It takes me about half a second to say yes.

Until then, I decide to catch-up with Dalen for the afternoon. He’s an old friend of mine and works as a photographer with a studio in town. It’s good to see him again and he tells me his news. It’s clear he’s passionate about his work and asks me if I want to help him with two photo shoots he has scheduled for that afternoon.

“Sure,” I say.

Dalen introduces me as his assistant when his clients arrive and I spend the next few hours moving around lighting equipment and switching on lamps while Dalen directs his clients in all manner of poses. His camera is whirring and clicking, light flashes everywhere.

I’m in a green jeep outside

It’s a text message from Gavin. He’s come to pick me up to go to the rugby stadium. It’s pouring with rain and we park the car nearby. We are sopping wet by the time we get to the corporate box, but we are greeted with bowls of biltong and beer and curry and everything is soon put right.

Gavin works in the fashion industry and introduces me to his new boss, a rich local businessman used to having his own way. I try to think of something intelligent to say, but what I really want is another beer. The place is full of fashion aficionados and women with bony shoulders and disappearing waistlines. They are all shrieking at each other.

I’ve known Gavin since high school. He’s an easygoing guy with dark olive skin that gives him a Mediterranean complexion. He was the popular guy in school who could switch on the charm at will. He is effortlessly trendy - right down to his shoelaces. He tells me how much he’s travelled for work over the last few years, keeping abreast with the latest fashion trends.

“I know New York like the back of my hand now. And Los Angeles - LA is so plastic it’s fantastic. I’ve spent about a year in China; it’s changing so fast. Every time I go back there it’s completely different,” he tells me.

The game is about to start and we take our seats. There are two girls sitting next to us. The one closest to us is a slender, petite brunette with curly hair. Her name is Angie and she is an assistant fashion buyer for the company. Her and her friend Tiffany, another fashion buyer, are having a girl’s night out. Tiffany is the poster child for Cape Town: a tall, willowy blonde with big blue eyes, high-cheek bones and perfect pearly teeth. Every now and then she breaks out into a well-trained laugh. She is a pure thoroughbred human horse. If life were a contest she would be the first prize.

Angie and Tiffany are talking furiously about boys and boyfriends and potential boyfriends and past boyfriends. It’s still pissing down with rain and I wonder if their conversation will turn to another topic like the game or even the weather, but it doesn’t. They go on right through the match, barely stopping to breathe. At half-time Gavin turns to them and asks them about their wine. Their faces light up with his attention. They seem overjoyed to hear he has just joined the company.

“Strategic projects. I’m going to be heading up strategic projects,” he tells them.

It feels to me like all my friends have accomplished so much in the last few years. I’m not sure if I can say the same thing. My passage in life has been more difficult to define, my journey an inner journey that doesn’t easily lend itself to conversation.

Gavin asks me how I’m settling in. I tell him about my frustrations in finding a short-term mobile phone contract and my struggle to get voice mail set-up and how expensive an Internet connection is. These are relatively simple things to organise in London that have somehow become a logistical nightmare in Cape Town. I find myself continually having to adjust my expectations.

“Dude, always remember: this is Africa. Take a few steps back and wait a week,” Gavin says. We talk about the news and the crazy political environment.

“You’ve got to realise, this country is a banana republic,” he says, “there is crime, chaos and mayhem everywhere. We’re living in a bubble, wrapped in our own little world and we hope like hell the bubble doesn’t get pricked.”

I think about this. Maybe he has a point; it certainly seems like a good way to pack all the politics into a box and forget about it. The country is awash with opportunities if you’re lucky enough.

“Have you found a place to stay?” he asks.

“Not yet,” I reply, “I’ve been looking at a few places in Claremont, but I reckon the city bowl is a better bet for me even though it’s more expensive. It will give me a chance to get to know the place a bit.”

“Why don’t you consider Bloubergstrand where I live? It’s kite-surfing capital out there and everything you need is close by, only the traffic is a bitch in the mornings though.”

After the rugby we go to a local bar for a few more beers before heading home. It’s been a good night.

The next day, I decide to go surfing and drive to Muizenberg, a well-known beach break popular with local surfers and great white sharks. Muizenberg is located on False Bay and used to be a haven for Cape Town’s Jewish community when large expensive houses used to line the roads near the beach. Since then it fell into disrepair and became a home for lowlifes and drug lords before the developers saw a moneymaking opportunity and moved in.

I pull into the parking lot by the beach and watch the sea for a while. The waves are about 3 to 4 foot high with only a few surfers in the line-up. I get out the car and clamber into my wetsuit. I struggle with the zip on my back and the guy in the parking bay next to me offers to help; he’s wearing a t-shirt that reads: waiting for waves is okay, most people spend their lives waiting for nothing.

I start to paddle out and a wave comes along. I push under it and the ice-cold water clasps my head in a vice. I can feel myself holding my breath as a trickle of seawater finds its way into my wetsuit and down my back. I remind myself to keep breathing. My arms aren’t used to paddling anymore and it becomes hard work to get out to the backline beyond the waves. Once there, my arms are tired and heavy and I sit on my surfboard while I wait for a wave. I look back to shore and the view is awesome, a natural trinity of sea, beach and mountain. A seal breaks the surface of the water next to me. There is something magical about it and I can hear the ocean breathing as a wave starts to break.

It’s good to be home.