Torn between Canada and fairest Cape

2020 is a lost year for many countries, not least for South Africa, where Covid-19 lockdowns are among the most restrictive on the planet.

Globally, these measures to combat the pandemic must be endured if we are to beat this thing. I’m fortunate here in Victoria, British Columbia.

I can shop in malls (wearing a mask), go to botanical gardens (no mask needed), cycle up the city’s numerous bicycle trails, and enjoy Vancouver Island’s wineries and farm markets (physically distanced).

Cinemas and restaurants have opened with limited seating, many people have returned to their jobs and, aside from face coverings and the 2m rule, life on Canada’s west coast appears pretty much normal.

The main issue for me is that I can’t be there. In the fairest Cape, where I’ve spent several months a year since I was in my early 20s, that’s nearly 50 years ago. It’s the nomad gene that keeps me returning. That and the beauty of the country, the diverse and colourful cultures, and the warm hospitality of South Africans.

Covid-19 is a world-class thief. It steals from everyone. Taken from me is my annual visit to writer Jane-Eliza Hasted’s fairy tale cottage near Miller’s

Point. “Come in, dahling. I’m about to pour some wine,” she said, in her elegant British accent, after I’d walked up her woodland path, looking for a drink of water. I stayed at “Blue Gums” off and on for nearly four months, as I explored the peninsula and regions beyond. That was over four decades ago, and though Jane is now enjoying sweeter finishes high above her earthly piece of paradise, the present owners recognise my deep connection with the property and extend to me the same generosity that she did.

Taken, too, is my time wandering South Africa’s hinterland, driving or cycling those lonely Karoo roads, picnicking on vetkoeks beneath paper-barked gum trees, and exploring quaint towns like Montagu and Barrydale. Plucked from me are the Western Cape’s springtime flowers that reveal my inner Bambi, who yearns to prance through their colourful pageantry. This year there will be no hearty waves from smiling farmworkers in the backs of lorries, no strolls along the moody strand at Blouberg, and no chats with Zimbabwean sculptors near Cape Point.

Gone are my singsong walks through the fynbos, meals of fresh snoek in Kalk Bay, and close times with Cape Town friends who I’ve called family for almost half a century.

It all sounds so ridiculously extravagant and self-indulgent when I think of the number of people who are struggling these days, who are afraid for their kids and have little access to a face mask, never mind a Covid-19 test.

I dislike that South Africans I meet may regard me as a wealthy foreigner because I can afford yearly trips to a country so far from Canada.

My visits are an obsession, though. I’ve sometimes spent my last dime for the opportunity to marvel at Table Mountain’s cascading tablecloth and to watch seaweed fan like mermaid’s hair in False Bay.

I’m grateful that I’ve been able to travel so often to a land I call my second home. My first is where I was born, but just technically.

In my heart I’ve always been torn between Canada and South Africa, ever since that day in the 1970s, when I hitch-hiked with a man named Harvie, from Joburg to Cape Town. Ever since I met Jane-Eliza at Blue Gums and built my double life in the friendly embrace of South Africans I’ve now known for a greater part of my life.

When Covid-19 is done – really done – I’ll be one of the first people to fly back. But for now it’s YouTube and home videos. Or my imagination.

The Garry oaks that tower here on the southern tip of Vancouver Island can, on occasion, become the trees that line the streets of Hout Bay.

Nearby Summit Park, that in spring is blanketed with purple camas, can magically transform into the Postberg Nature Reserve with its magnificent kaross of wild flowers.

There’s no limit to what daydreaming can do. In my mind, I can hear “Welcome to South Africa” from jubilant staff at Cape Town International.

I can smell the fresh blooms at the flower market off Adderley Street. I can taste Warida’s spicy samoosas and candy-sweet koeksisters in Bo-kaap.

And I can feel the warmth of a country that will call me home, again and again, until the end of my days.