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OU wouldn’t be blamed if, after falling asleep along the uneventful R399 towards Paternoster, you woke up to wonder if you’d mistakenly boarded a flight to a Greek island.
This fishing village, with its cluster of white-washed cottages, conjures up both a biblical and playful air.
Crude signage, in the spirit of naïve art, hangs outside many of the houses, making it easy to find my guesthouse. In the garden, a retired blue-and-red fishing boat, doubling up as a fynbos-filled planter, is a reminder of a bygone era.
The ocean, so shamelessly blue with its unrelenting beckoning, elicits from me an exaggerated exhale.
Paternoster is unapologetically reserved. It’s generally accepted that the closest one can get to ostentation in Paternoster is the city of Cape Town, 150km away. According to the information booklet on the coffee table, there’s an unwritten rule (written, funnily enough), that noise after 10pm in Paternoster is frowned upon.
My guesthouse marries the rustic feel of the kitchen fireplace with the modern convenience contained in the slew of appliances and full DStv. The home security system and regular cruising past of the local armed response, however, remind me that I’m in contemporary South Africa and that low-level crime is a reality. In fact, as I find out on my early morning walk along the beach, it’s an open secret that a particular crime occurs in Paternoster almost every day.
After spending some time reclining upon the large, smooth rocks that sit at the water’s edge, I meet Ronaldinho (likely not his real name) in the car-park-turned-weekend market.
He, as do some of his friends, kneels down and opens his wornlooking carrier bags to expose live crayfish. I’m no expert but I can tell by the short tails that these poor things didn’t get too much time to grow before they were snatched from the rocky sea.
Ronaldinho’s face holds a hardened expression, too advanced for his age, which I assume is no more than 13.
He thrusts up his hands in an apathetic gesture when I ask about the R94 crayfish permit that allows for a maximum of four crayfish a day during the season (a restricted number of days between November 2016 and April 2017). He repeats the gesture when I ask if he’s still in school. Education isn’t really encouraged, he explains. The others agree. Their dads and uncles have been poaching for years.
I decline Ronaldinho’s tempting prices, remembering the spot fine for possession of crayfish without a permit. When I look out at the boats again, barely visible through the haze of the morning, they hold a mystical, otherworldly quality. In some ways, they represent the contradiction between the strides South Africa has made in the past 23 years and the residues of apartheid.
A microcosm of South Africa, Paternoster’s two worlds are evident in the small township alongside the main town. According to Ronaldinho, drugs are rife in this community. The houses are significantly more modest and roof-top solar panels give the sense of an elevated synchronicity.
The small, welcoming foyer, with its rustic tones, semi-precious stones strewn among the products on display and the wafting scents of aromatherapy oils are all invitations to the relaxation that awaits me. Melissa’s hands are soft yet deliberate as she begins my full-body massage. I trust she will do the full body, as I fall asleep as soon as she gets busy on the second leg.
Trips to Langebaan, Vrendenburg and Darling help pass the days away. But it’s Paternoster’s demure evening welcome that I look forward to most.
Sunsets here are quickly moving scenes of exceptional beauty. Spending half a minute bent over my phone, frantically trying to create more storage for photos, I look up to see the unsettled sky change once again.
Fiery skies give way to orange hues that bleed softly into the clouds. At one point, the sun, now pretty much just ribbons of yellow around a vortex of stubbornly dying light, is sandwiched between the horizon and the oncoming grey of the night. The sun eventually goes to sleep. Soon, Paternoster will too. — © Lisa-Anne Julien
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