No Fixed Abode: Freedom cannot be manacled (or The end of alliteration)

Sun 5 June 2016 - Robben Island

As the weather was due to get warmer in the next few days we had originally planned to walk up Table Mountain today but with the absence of any wind, making the sea crossing to Robben Island more enjoyable, we elected to go there instead.

The short drive along the coast was littered with lycra clad runners, power walkers, strollers, cyclists, in fact it seemed that most of Cape Town was on the broad pavement undertaking some form of exercise - good for them. We drove past in admiration both of their willingness and their beautiful city that encourages such activity until we arrived at the waterfront. Like so many port towns the old Victorian warehouses have been rejuvenated into swanky shops, cafes and bars and the whole area had a nice vibrancy about it. We parked in an underground car park then surfaced into the swish Victoria Mall and, resisting the temptation to trawl round more shops, wandered straight through and headed for the ferry terminal for Robben Island, passing the Albert Mall on the way. It seems every old empire seaport has a Victoria dock and an Albert dock..

The sun shone, the sea sparkled and the cormorants lined the wharf as the ferry approached but the island has an ugly past. Robben Island, five miles across shark infested water from Cape Town, has a centuries-old history of banishment and imprisonment of both common criminals and political prisoners. It has also served as a leper colony, a place for the insane, and a military post – last during World War 2. It became renowned as the place where all the anti apartheid activists from the 60s, 70s and 80s, including most famously Nelson Mandela, were interred. The boat ride is around 45mins and we stood at the stern of the boat for the duration admiring the wonderful view of Cape Town nestled around Table Mountain under a bright blue sky with the odd yacht crossing in front.

Once at the island we boarded a coach and met our tour guide. As part of his introduction he asked where we were all from and, after everyone shouted out their nationality, we were surprised to be with such an international bunch. It appeared the only country not represented was South Africa but when he asked specifically if there were any South Africans some reluctant hands slowly raised in the air. He then told us that on 80% of his tours the locals will not admit their nationality until prompted - are they ashamed of their past? They are in good company!

The coach took us on a tour of the whole island, of which the prison is only a small part, and showed us the remains of a leper colony, a church and a house where the first anti apartheid activist had been held before reaching a reasonably sized village that had been home for all the guards and associated workers - indeed it is still home to many of the staff currently working here. By co-incidence a member of our group was an ex inmate and he knew nothing of this side of the island - he’d been trundled straight into the prison, where he remained until freed.

After learning about the island as a whole we were dropped at the entrance to the prison and handed over to a new guide, a former political prisoner. He told us of his incarcerated life there with the various rules and regulations the warders used to try and break the spirits of the inmates and the measures they used to counter them. They contrived various secret ways to study, a banned activity, and communicate with each other and the outside world. He also explained the tension that existed between the old guys, who had been there since the 60s and had worked hard with the Red Cross to gain certain privileges, such as receiving letters and having a mat to sleep on, and his generation that wanted further action.

The prisoners were divided into four groups: a-d. Groups a and b were the regular bunch that were kept in overcrowded dormitories, c and d were leaders and ‘those of influence’ who were kept in tiny, unheated individual cells sleeping on the concrete floor with thin mats as mattresses. We left with nothing but admiration for those that never lost their belief in democracy and, more importantly, were ready to forgive years (decades in some instances) of abuse when they eventually did gain power.

Regretfully the tour was on a bit of a time schedule and we didn’t get the opportunity to read all, in fact very little, of the information panels dotted around the museum - very disappointing.

Back at Cape Town waterfront we grabbed a quick cuppa and a large piece of cheesecake (carb loading for tomorrow, you understand) then went for a bit of an exploration. Crossing a couple of old bridges we came across an area that wouldn't look out of place in Miami or Dubai - a large marina packed with flashy yachts and cruisers, lined with equally flashy apartments. This is clearly where all the money in Cape Town is.

After watching a bridge raise to admit a luxury cruiser with three bored looking teenage girls reclining on the rear sofa engrossed in their phones while Dad steered, we wandered back towards the old buildings and spied a brew pub. Well, as we were passing and had a bit of thirst we popped in to see what was on offer and to Yvonne’s absolute delight the Paris Open Tennis final was emblazoned across a plethora of screens around the bar. We found an acceptable beer (not that that mattered, we were stopping whatever) and settled in front of a large TV to watch Andy Murray once again crumble to Novak Djokovic. Saddened by his, almost inevitable, loss we managed to locate our car in the huge car park and find our way home in the dark.

While stuffing our faces with a swiftly prepared dinner (well, it was late) Glenn checked his emails and found, to his delight, that Toby (middle son) had received the new Frost* (a band we are passionate about) CD, ripped it and stored the files in the cloud for us to grab. Isn't technology great - when it works!