LETTER FROM VREDEHOEK
Locked down in his flat in Vredehoek, Cape Town, Toast Coetzer starts getting the hang of island life.
“Our car batteries are running low. We stand at windows for longer, staring out at the rubbish bin, or at a bird perched on the feeder. We read thicker books. Being on an island has forced us to get our priorities right: family, or those closest to you, and where your next meal will come from.”
During lockdown I’ve often thought about the Tristanians. Isolation has been part of their lifestyle since the first permanent settlement there in 1816.
My right hand holds a pair of braai tongs and sporadically busies itself by turning a chicken drumstick on the grid. My left hand holds my phone at an angle where I can see the image on the screen clearly: A big pack of wild dogs are trotting athletically along a jeep track, the roadside grass tall and green after good rain in the Lowveld. I’m watching WildEarth’s YouTube live stream and riding along on a game drive in a private game reserve 1 500 km from Cape Town. My father would have shaken his head at all this modern technology. The khaki-clad guide behind the wheel of the vehicle provides running commentary. In pretty much real time, I can see what he’s seeing: The cameraman zooms in for a close-up of a wild dog, its floppy ears turning, listening in the dusk. They’re hunting.
The sizzle of chicken fat catching alight snaps me back to my suburban lockdown situation, and for a few seconds I battle the flames, moving chicken portions to the side of the grid. Crisis averted.
The live stream switches to another vehicle in the same reserve. This guide is whispering – he’s very close to a herd of elephants. A small ellie mock-charges the vehicle. Thousands of comments stream in below the video: So cute! Cool!
I look up from the screen. Rogue and Riley are barking at the gate. They’re the resident dogs in our block – they belong to the paramedic who lives in one of the flats. Rogue and Riley are a friendly duo who enjoy barking at whomever walks past our front gate, especially if that person is walking another dog. They’ve been starved of such pleasures lately – it’s just a couple of weeks into lockdown and Vredehoek’s dogs aren’t getting the walkies they’re used to.
Impressed with themselves, the dogs lope over to join me at the braai. It’s autumn, the prettiest season in the Cape. Vredehoek is above Cape Town’s City Bowl, at the foot of
Devil’s Peak. I can see the Upper Cable Station at the far end of Table Mountain, like a lone, upright block of Lego. The last rays of light linger up there, dusting the grey cliffs with bronze. The sun is setting out of sight, behind Lion’s Head from where I’m standing.
If I look the other way, past the flat block towards the sea, I can see Table Bay and part of the harbour. My bedroom looks out that way too, and when I sit up in the morning I can make out the red hull of the SA Agulhas II. This ship supports South Africa’s meteorological bases on Antarctica, Marion Island and Gough Island, while also making the odd call at Tristan da Cunha in the South Atlantic Ocean. I’ve been lucky enough to join one such a voyage to Tristan, which is 2 800 km from Cape Town and known as the most isolated permanently inhabited place in the world.
During lockdown I’ve often thought about the Tristanians. Isolation has been part of their lifestyle since the first permanent settlement there in 1816. Even today, there is no airport. If you want something specific, like a new tap for your bathroom, you have to order it from Cape Town and then you or someone else must go fetch it by boat. Nothing happens too quickly on Tristan. You have time to think about your next move.
In a way, the Covid-19 lockdown has deposited us all on islands. Things have slowed down. Our car batteries are running low. We stand at windows for longer, staring out at the rubbish bin, or at a bird perched on the feeder. We read thicker books. Being on an island has forced us to get our priorities right: family, or those closest to you, and where your next meal will come from.
My island is the size of the property on which the flat block stands – maybe 25 metres by 45 metres. At least there are some trees, which attract red-winged starlings, pigeons, sparrows and the odd sunbird. They’re free – flitting between islands as they’ve always done. Other people live on much smaller, more cramped islands, and I think of them too.
Temporarily stuck here, I travel in different ways: on YouTube, on Google Earth, watching documentaries on DStv Now, and by reading books. I glance down at the phone again. The guide has parked at a dam. The camera zooms in on a pair of chittering little grebes. “Shhh,” the guide says, “I can hear owls.” The camera pans up, searching among dark trees. My chicken is done. I gather the pieces off the braai and take them inside.