A South African Road Trip: From Cape Town to Tofo

Johannesburg to Cape Town

After a grueling 14-hour flight from New York City, my friend Nate and I were exhausted. To make matters worse, Nate’s luggage never arrived. We spoke to the baggage inquiries desk, exchanged some currency, and bought a prepaid cell phone. With no hotels within walking distance of the terminal, an information desk clerk recommended a place called Noah’s Guesthouse in Kempton Park.

Nate stepped outside with my suitcase to wait, while I returned to the information desk to ask about a taxi stand when everything went black. The next thing I remember was waking up in the airport clinic. An ambulance took me to a nearby hospital, where a nurse informed me that my friend was in the lobby. In reality, he had been anxiously pacing the airport, searching for me, until the clerk explained what had happened. I had bitten through my lip in two places and needed stitches. I spent the rest of the night lying in a hospital bed, watching Indian cricket games on television.

The next morning, we were back on the road within 15 minutes of waking up. We stopped for gas, and I had a surprisingly tasty breakfast of eggs, wheat toast, ham, fries, and Gatorade. Nate took over driving for the next several hours until we stopped for lunch near Bloemfontein.

That afternoon, we cruised through breathtaking, arid South African countryside. We eventually stopped in a town called Laingsburg, about three hours from Cape Town, and checked into a hotel. It looked uncannily like a grandma’s house, complete with dingy carpet in the bathroom. The next morning, we awoke to discover the carpet was drenched from the faulty toilet. Eager to reach the coast, we drove the remaining distance to Cape Town, passing through gorgeous winelands along the way.

Cape Town

Eventually we arrived at the Cape Town airport where we returned the rental car and grabbed a taxi to a hostel recommended by the information desk. The dorm room at Ashanti Guesthouse in Green Point had four bunkbeds and smelled like cabbage, as Nate put it. That night, an Australian guy from the hostel offered us a ride to Long Street, Cape Town’s lively bar district, where we grabbed drinks together.

After a loud evening at the hostel, we split a cab to Table Mountain with our Swiss roommate. Nate and the Swiss guy practically ran to the summit, arriving about an hour before me. I was out of shape and too slow to keep up. The view of Green Point above the clouds was spectacular. We could see Cape Point, where the Atlantic and Indian oceans meet. Nate decided to take the trail back down, but I took the gondola for $11. I stretched out on a bus stop bench and napped until they made it down. We had lunch at Café Sofía and Nate decided to hike Signal Hill to watch the paragliders. I was still feeling jetlagged, so I stayed behind at the hostel. In the evening, we walked to Nando’s, a restaurant I’d seen often in YouTube videos and was eager to finally try. I had sun-dried tomato chicken with rice, fruit punch, and cheesecake for dessert. It was much better than I had expected.

We walked two miles to Long Street, booked a 4×4 for the next day, and picked up a cheap cell phone for hotel calls. While we were walking down the street, a lady asked us to buy her some food. Out of nowhere, a man yelled “Give her nothing. She’s a worthless heroin addict.” She responded, “He’s an addict too,” to which he retorted, “I smoke marijuana, but at least I work for my money!”

We took a taxi to Clifton Beach with a character named “Papy” who dropped us off at a country club. The beach communities were gorgeous, the water was lovely, and the community was well-maintained. We climbed over the massive boulders lining the shore. It was a blast! We reached a wide open, rock-free stretch of beach, but the wind whipped the sand hard against our faces. We dropped by at a relaxing seafood restaurant overlooking the water where I ate fried fish and chips with squash and spinach.

When we got back to Ashanti, I decided to take out my stitches. I didn’t want to attempt it alone, so Nate volunteered to assist me. When I asked if he was sure that he knew what he was doing, he replied, “I studied vet science. I’ve taken stitches out of cows many times.” I lay on the front porch and, with my nose-hair scissors, Nate carefully snipped out the stitches below my lip. Hostel guests passed by, doing double takes as Nate performed minor impromptu surgery on my face. As the wind picked up and turned cold, we watched Jurassic Park 2 in the common area.