Travel Reference
In-Depth Information
dismay that virtually all my canned goods from Cape Town were very rusted. In fact, sev-
eral of them had blown, and I knew the contents would be inedible. I decided to toss them
over the side when it was dark, thinking that they would eventually rust away, and the fish
would eat up the contents.
I brought all the rusty cans up into the cockpit and stacked them on deck, throwing a towel
over them to hide them. Later, under cover of the evening and looking about me, I quietly
dropped each one over the side with a deep sploosh.
I showered in the cockpit from the contents of the solar shower bag I had left in the sun.
After changing into evening clothes, I rowed ashore to meet my new friends at Sam's Bar.
It was not hard to find the place. It was by far the busiest pub on the street. It was all lighted
up with throngs of noisy, drunk tourists and locals all shouting and yelling over the general
din. The bar itself was a long, horseshoe-shaped affair that spilled out into the pavement.
Inside this bar were several barmen who worked constantly, serving drinks with deft move-
ments and flashing smiles.
There was a flight of stairs next to the bar that took one to the dining room above which
commanded a great view of the tropical harbor lights and out across the bay. The food was
delicious and affordable, and I would treat myself here on many occasions during my stay.
My favorite of their specialty was prime rib, where they served smoldering, hot slabs of
pink, succulent, melting steak, the texture of cake, along with an exploded steaming baked
potato smothered in sour cream and chives.
Down on street level now, in the throng of suntanned, healthy, and happy revelers sat a
bespectacled young man with a shock of curly red hair, playing a guitar and singing out
loudly for all he was worth. Perched on a stool, which in turn was perched precariously on
a table, the young Scot belted out songs of the day and was rewarded with an ever growing
tip jar. As he sang he would click his heel violently on the table in time with the music.
This jarring action would shift his stool stealthily towards the edge of the table where he
would, just in time, push his stool back to the safety of the middle. I never knew whether
he did this as a gimmick or not. I wondered how long it would be before the singer would
go careening over the side.
I joined Tam and her two friends and was offered a stool at the bar. We talked of a variety
of things, and I could not help but notice that Tam was especially attentive to me. She sat
very close to me and at one point rested her hand on my leg.
“So, where is Steve tonight?” I asked.
“Oh, he hates going out. He gets tired during the day and likes to go to bed early and read
a book,” she answered glibly.
