Sunday Times

The ring of fire

The sight of fire raging out of control stokes primal fears about community, home and safety — and should spark conversati­ons about what will be an ever more common danger in all our lives, writes Jonathan Ancer

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Last Sunday morning at 8am I joined a dozen cyclists at the Rhodes Memorial cattle grid to escort Jean du Plessis on his 200th ride to the Blockhouse since October 1 last year. Jean has been cycling up the slopes of Table Mountain in a gesture of what he calls “slow burn” solidarity with women who have been abused. We reached the Blockhouse an hour later and were joined by hikers, runners and Pilot the Great Dane to mark a remarkable double century of Blockhousi­ng. Jean looked exhausted — determined, but exhausted — and I wondered how many more Blockhouse trips he would be able to endure.

We hadn’t seen any flames on our journey up the mountain, but 15 minutes after we arrived at the Blockhouse I saw wisps of smoke in the veld below. We made our way to the bottom and as we climbed up a short hill, I looked to my right and saw some flames.

“Ah,” I remarked flippantly to the cyclist next to me, “burning down the mountain is probably the only way Jean will ever stop his Blockhouse rides.” There was a fire truck and a few firefighte­rs were attending to the fire. It looked like it was under control.

I didn’t think much more about it. We live only about a kilometre from Rhodes Memorial, which was where the fire started, but between us and the flames was a large chunk of tar: the M3 highway.

An hour or so after I arrived home the sky was covered by a blanket of smog. Then it started raining ash. I checked Twitter for updates and exchanged nervous chatter with my neighbour. We agreed that as long as the blaze didn’t jump the M3 we were safe. I went inside and glanced at Twitter. The fire had indeed jumped across the highway. Not only that, it had gutted SA’s oldest working windmill, the 300year-old Mostert’s Mill, and was threatenin­g to engulf homes in the area.

It was time to think about panicking

Dramatic fire photograph­s were circulatin­g on Twitter, which I was refreshing every two seconds. Perhaps it wasn’t time to panic but it was certainly time to think about panicking. The sooty air was filled with the sounds of sirens and the urgent buzz of helicopter­s flying backwards and forwards with Bambi buckets to dump water on the flames. The sky had turned an apocalypti­c pink.

My wife took our children to her sister in Hout Bay. The fire was getting closer and it was time to take stock — literally. I shoved a file of “important documents” — IDs, birth certificat­es — into a bag and looked around at all the possession­s I had gathered in the 50 years I’ve been haunting this planet. I wondered what I should take in the event there was an instructio­n to evacuate.

My Billy Bunter book collection? Set in pre-World War 2 Britain, Billy Bunter is the greedy antihero schoolboy who thinks of excuses not to do his homework, steals other boys’ food and tries to lie his way out of trouble. One of my earliest memories is lying on my bed reading a Billy Bunter story. A cake has gone missing and all crumbs point to Bunter, who, when confronted, tries to defend himself: “Oh Lor, but

I didn’t eat the cake when I wasn’t in Wharton’s study … and anyway it didn’t taste very nice.”

I’m sure I own Africa’s largest Bunter collection, but it would be impossible to save all 187 copies. Maybe I could just take one — but which one? It wouldn’t be fair to the others.

I decided the only possession I would take would be my treasured ostrich eggshell. When I was about six I fell in love with the shell in a shop in the Carlton Centre in Johannesbu­rg. I thought it was the most beautiful thing in the world and I had to have it. I nagged my parents until they caved. My prized possession was placed in a cabinet and every day I took it out and admired it. One day, though, I knocked it over and it fell on the floor, scattering bits of ostrich eggshell everywhere. I howled. My father glued the shattered egg together — piece by piece — like an impossible, jagged, 3-D jigsaw puzzle. Forty-five years later, I still have it and treasure it.

I packed some clothes but the only item I really wanted was the cycling arm-warmer sleeves I had waited to wear for more than a year. I’d ordered them online before the previous winter but only a single sleeve arrived. One sleeve? A mistake surely. No, insisted the owner of the shop. I argued that armwarmer sleeves are like socks, they come in pairs. After much toing and froing he agreed to send me the other sleeve at a discount, but by the time the sleeve arrived to join its partner, winter was over. The thought of wasting so much time and indignatio­n and never getting to wear the sleeves was too much. I shoved them in the bag. What else? I looked around.

Unfortunat­ely, I couldn’t pack the 100kg steel fireplace. We had bought it on a whim soon after we moved into the house 10 years ago and only then discovered how expensive it was to install. For a decade the hulking lump of steel had sat in the corner of the room in judgment of me. It was a constant reminder of the scores of unfinished projects and “great ideas” that had been abandoned. A month ago we finally bit the bullet and had a flue and chimney fitted and the fireplace installed. If the house burnt down, undoubtedl­y the unused, smug fireplace would be the only thing that would survive. The irony was too much.

The fire was out of control

By now the suburban grapevine was buzzing with talk of evacuation. The wisps of smoke I had seen just a few hours earlier had become a raging inferno. The fire was out of control. Strong winds had fanned flames across the mountain, destroying the Rhodes Memorial tearoom, and had rolled onto the University of Cape Town’s campus. Thousands of students were evacuated from residences; another massive disruption for them, after having to deal with ongoing issues around fees and pandemic disruption­s.

News also filtered through that the fire had ripped through several of UCT’s historical buildings, including the Jagger Reading Room, which forms part of the UCT Libraries’ Special Collection­s. Irreplacea­ble original material, first-edition books, films, photos and other unique prized and priceless material were destroyed. Ujala Satgoor, the director of UCT Libraries, confirmed that valuable collection­s were lost, but said shutters prevented the fire from spreading to other areas of the library, including small fireproof rooms undergroun­d. Some good news, though centuries of knowledge have been lost to the world forever.

 ?? Pictures: Ruvan Boshoff ?? PATH OF DESTRUCTIO­N The fire that raced down Table Mountain last weekend reached the main campus of the University of Cape Town, where students were evacuated and several buildings were damaged.
Pictures: Ruvan Boshoff PATH OF DESTRUCTIO­N The fire that raced down Table Mountain last weekend reached the main campus of the University of Cape Town, where students were evacuated and several buildings were damaged.
 ?? Picture: Ruvan Boshoff ?? On Monday the fire raged on the mountainsi­de above the suburb of Oranjezich­t, creating a hellish image.
Picture: Ruvan Boshoff On Monday the fire raged on the mountainsi­de above the suburb of Oranjezich­t, creating a hellish image.

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