Spring snowdrifts still coated the upper reaches of the growing landscape: a blanket of fir trees among the piles of gray stones, a few unplanted fields and farms and then the silvery stretch of sea, unmarred by a single wave.

“So this is Norway,” I thought to myself, and with that simple revelation, everything I had ever read on the subject was replaced by my own brief first image of a place I have longed for ever since I saw it on a map. You can study a place your whole life—dream of traveling there, hang your wall with the most compelling travel posters of all time, but none of it will never compare to arriving there yourself for the first time.

The name “Norway” (or Norge in Norwegian) derives from the old Norse words norð vegr, or “North Way”. As a traveler, it’s hard not to fall in love with a country named for a cardinal direction—and it’s equally impossible not to admire Norway’s illustrious travel traditions, from the swarthy Vikings who set off in open-air longboats to ruddy polar explorers like Roald Amundsen who maintained that, “Adventure is just bad planning.”

Norwegians taught the rest of us how to travel—to explore beyond the limits of what we see from our own front door and to use whatever we have—the wind, the waves, a team of dogs, or skis strapped to our feet—anything at all to propel us forward and into the world. This is what the “north way” means to me—to never stop exploring; that only by traveling do we find our own true home.

Norway is home to so many adventurers and explorers that I wanted to come here and discover the homeland that inspired so many: Heyerdahl drifted west, Amundsen went south, and the Vikings sailed as far east as Istanbul. And me? I will head north.

I came to Norway to follow this ancient and northern way and for the next few weeks I will be exploring this most magnificent country, one fjord at a time.

The thrill of my northern adventure combats my jet lag just enough for me to tap out this wee blog post from the quiet heart of Oslo.  It is well past my bedtime, but outside, the sky is as bright as a morning in Tuscany.

Indeed, light is the subtle secret of Scandinavia, now growing stronger by the day. As  a traveler, I am lucky enough to be following the sun as it moves north, across Norway.

I hope that you’ll follow along with me. That way we can all chase in summer together. . . the northern way.

More than any other aspect (food, architecture, nature, history), it’s the people who make a place. Nowhere is that more true than in the great city of Durban.

My week-long exploration of this city-by-the-sea revealed many things, beginning with the realization that despite Durban’s many interesting sights, it is not so much a sightseeing destination. Rather, Durban is a city of doing and being: taking in the great blue scope of the ocean, dipping into curry so hot your eyes burn, catching the trailing music of the townships, and tapping into the thumping heartbeat of Africa’s nonstop rhythm and traffic.

I love the beach here. I love Durban’s the weird and wonderful blend of Zulu, Indian, and British cultures. I love the parade of ships lined up for miles along the shore, waiting their turn to load and unload in the historic port. But most of all, I love all the people I met in this fast-changing South African city.

These are just a handful of the new friends I found on Durban’s shores.

A lot of cows die in the townships—every time there’s a birth, or a wedding, or a funeral, a cow gets stabbed in the back and then cooked on a fire. Among the Zulu in Durban, most major life events involve slaughtering an animal and then sharing the meat.

On a Sunday afternoon, I followed the smell of boiling beef to an outdoor tent floating above a yard in Umlazi Township. Neighbors came and went, carrying offerings of food and drink. Outside, a few old men tended the fire and stirred two cauldrons of tender meat, and in a backyard shed I encountered what was left of the cow that once was: the smiling square-toothed jaws and a several humongous sides of beef dangling from a chain.

“This morning we served all the people from the church,” reported Nandi, the woman of the house. “And now all the neighbors will come to eat.”

She’d been awake since two that morning with her sisters and cousins, preparing and cooking for an indeterminate number of house guests.

“About 300,” she counted, already planning for the next setting. These Zulu gatherings are true feasts—akin to American Thanksgiving but served in shifts, one group after the other.

Beef and beer make up the main menu. Giant slabs of meat are salted and peppered, then slowly tenderized in a cast iron pot. The sour-smelling umqombothi is brewed from maize, malt, sorghum, yeast and water. Pungent bubbles pop and fizzle on the surface of this yeasty concoction that gets passed in a round black pot from one mouth to another.

I was a stranger, a man pulled in off the street, but Nandi counted me as her guest and handed me the spherical pot. I took a sip of the drink that’s alive, feeling the cider-y flavor wake up my tongue—this drink that’s been brewed by Zulu for ages. As I wiped my mouth, all the women sang out in a shrill cry, ululating, “Yiyiyiyiyiyi!”

Nandi was celebrating her father-in-law’s unveiling, a ceremony where the tombstone of the deceased is unveiled one year after death. It is less of a somber ritual then a bright celebration of the ancestors, fueled by food and friends. Already, neighbors were dancing in the yard, and women were singing and clapping their hands.

I was a total stranger, an out-of-place mlungu wandering around the township, but I was suddenly included, pulled in off the streets of Umlazi and made to feel welcome. Once again, I was touched by the warmth of Durban and reminded once again never to judge a place based on reputation. Everyone kept telling me that Umlazi was dangerous, but I honestly think that’s a generalization based on the past.

Celebrating with new friends in Umlazi Township, Durban, South Africa (Photo by Andrew Evans, National Geographic Traveler)

The fact is, Umlazi is bigger than the phone book.

Phone books normally just stick to the letters of the alphabet—and the last four letters, XYWZ, usually get squashed into one final abbreviated section.

But not in Umlazi.

In this city-by-the-city, there’s a section for every letter of the alphabet—and then some. Over the past few years, as the South African township outside Durban grows larger and larger, blanketing new hills with new people and quick homes, the neighborhood-naming has rotated back to the beginning: Sections AA, BB, and CC.

“I stay in AA,” said one man to me, on the beach in Durban. Then he asked me where I stay. It’s the ultimate African idiom—the question, “Where do you stay?”, which in fact means, “Where do you live?”

Many Zulu have asked me this same question, “Where do you stay?” and I thought they wanted to know the name of my hotel. But I have since learned to respond, “I stay in America.”

I love the frank poetry of African English, and the truth revealed in the odd wording. I am American, but considering my travels over the past few years, it is difficult to state that, “I live in America.” I merely stay there on brief occasions. America is my township.

Nobody can tell me the exact size and scope of Umlazi Township.

“At least a million,” said one woman. “Over 1.5 million,” corrected the other. “Probably closer to two million,” insisted one city politician, “with all the informal settlers.”

“Informal” is everybody without an actual address—all the newcomers who’ve moved to the city from the countryside of KwaZulu-Natal and from the whole rest of Africa: Malawi, Mozambique, Zimbabwe, Zambia, Congo and Somalia.

The informal settlers put up homes wherever they can find a patch of dirt—often on a steep slope. The houses are ramshackle, ingeniously crafted from timber, mud, tin, sticks, plastic, bricks and thatch. Refurbished containers (just like the one stacked on ships in the harbor) are placed on concrete and serve as ablution blocks, with toilets, showers and running water.

Once the primary black settlement of apartheid-era Durban, Umlazi is now the pan-African Brooklyn of South Africa’s east coast port. The area is growing so fast, they keep adding new double-lettered sections.

“We’re bigger than Soweto now, you know?” they said proudly. The people of Umlazi take pride in being the largest township in South Africa–a vast landscape of hills that are freckled with identical cement houses, as if a child kicked a lifetime collection of Legos across their backyard.

I thought about about the American suburbs I know, with their ridiculously soapy street names like Pine Blossom Crescent, Meadowlark Lane or Nightmist Court. I myself grew up in a subdivision called Fox Run. But out here, the subdivisions of Umlazi are all business–in a single day, I visited Section D, Section W, Section S and Section AA. Each section of Umlazi was entirely indistinguishable.

Children played barefoot in burned-out bottle stores, women braided their hair on sidewalks or hung clothes on the line. In the heavy afternoon heat, organized teams played football in the various grassy parks. Dogs barked and chased cars.

The fact is, Umlazi is where Durban lives—well, about half of Durban. And much of the rest of Durban lives in formerly black-only townships that are a lot like Umlazi: KwaMashu, Inanda. The geography of apartheid left a metropolis of co-dependent neighborhoods spaced inconveniently apart. Today, the city center needs Umlazi and Umlazi needs the city, and yet the two still exist in somewhat separate realms.

Durban is a city of millions of people, but it’s also just one big village. The day after I met Nandi in her backyard in Umlazi, I ran into her in Durban’s city center–at the gym. She was in workout clothes and bench-pressing a dauntingly large barbell. We said hello to one another; I found out she worked as a manager at the university nearby.

Such is life in this African city where Zulu traditions and high-tech lifestyles are compatible. Based on a few days’ exploration, I’d say that life in in the townships is not what it was twenty years ago. New communities have evolved and a middle class has emerged.

Durban taxi drivers may still avoid Umlazi at night, but the fact is, I walked around in broad daylight without incident.  I did not get mugged or robbed or stabbed or attacked.

Rather, I was invited into the home of a total stranger. I was greeted warmly by new friends–I was offered food and drink and made to feel so welcome. And I left with several warm hugs and loving pats on my arm and back.

That’s what “township” means to me now. And I’m sticking with it.

Strips of dried animal skin dangle in a row, and as I walk past, I guess at each remnant’s former animal life: a crocodile, an antelope, a vulture, and several long black mambas.

Beneath the display, on a hand-constructed table, there’s a kind of discount bin of dried animal parts: broken horns, fuzzy pelts, lizard feet and rodent heads. One whiff smells a lot like very dead animals, but these are actually all ingredients for muthi – traditional Zulu medicine.

Durban’s muthi market is one of the largest in South Africa and represents a key aspect of Zulu culture: using the magical qualities of plants and animals to cope with the supernatural world around us.

Ailments are both physical and spiritual, natural and supernatural. Whether you are afflicted by an earache or an unknown evil curse, muthi can solve your ills. All you need to know is the right kind of muthi.

Umlomomnandi is a root that when you chew on it, blesses you with quick wit, a poetic voice and a silver tongue. “If you have this with you in court, you will surely be acquitted!” I am told.

Likewise, every chopped-up bit of bark and root has great magical qualities, and I am amazed by the sheer number of medicine available in this vast outdoor marketplace:

After you take a dose of Istunzi, people will respect you. Iqonqo rids your surrounding of evil spirits. Izinyamazane soothes crying babies, and protects them through the night from evil design. Uvulakuvalike will help a struggling business, and Umuthi Wenhlahla brings good luck.

Knowing what to take and how to take muthi, one consults the inyanga and sangoma. Inyanga are traditional Zulu doctors, or “medicine men” — healers who attribute their trade from father to son. Sangoma are more spiritually-inclined, fortunetellers and diviners (the proverbial “witch doctors”), who offer guidance and can sniff out any evil that may be troubling you.

Most of the people selling muthi in Durban are neither inyanga or sangoma, but are merely herbalists who fill orders. Most of the medicine I saw was made from chopped-up bark or roots. Usually, patients are counseled to make a brew from it, which they ingest and then vomit back up again. They might also steam their muthi and breath in the fumes, or bathe in it.

As a traveler, visiting Durban’s muthi market is a mind-blowing experience, and I am mostly struck by the similarities with aspects of Zulu medicine and the Vodou practice I witnessed back in New Orleans last year. The fact is, African beliefs and medicine have traveled across the world and still play a very real role in many societies today. Even here, in the shadow of Durban’s big city skyscrapers, the buying and selling of traditional muthi is a big business and Zulu rituals are as much a part of city life as surfing and shipping.

I end up buying two bags of muthi: some fuchsia-colored good luck medicine, and a very large concoction mixed just for me, consisting of many different kinds of tree bark, blended specifically for my own personal magical needs.

I look forward to enjoying the results.

A bag of good luck medicine in the Durban Muthi Market (Photo by Andrew Evans, National Geographic Traveler)

Bunny chow (or “a bunny”) is classic Durban cuisine: a hollowed-out square loaf of soft bread, filled with rich, spicy HOT curry that you eat with your fingers. It’s messy, very yummy, and travels well.

Like all great South African food, Bunny Chow represents a grand mix of culture and flavors, blending traditions from Durban’s Indian population (curry that makes you gasp), with the European (white bread), and African (use your hands).

Bunnies come in different sizes (quarter, half, and whole loaves of bread), and different flavors (e.g. vegetarian, chicken, lamb), and everyone in Durban has their one beloved take-away (carryout) shop that they trust to make the best bunnies in town.

As an outsider with nary a clue, I did my own survey on the beach, asking just about everyone I saw, “Where is the best bunny in Durban?”

I got a lot of different responses, but the one that kept coming up was the Britannia Hotel in the north side of the city. Built in 1877, this stalwart port hotel been around longer than the bunny itself. Just coming to a place like this is enough to make you wonder who slept and ate at this one hotel through the so many eras.

Sure enough, my first bunny was a success, leaving my lips burning and my tummy happy. As unattractive as it might first look and as strange as it might sound, I loved eating a Durban bunny and I recommend it highly (if you can cope with the heat). It’s just one of those things you just have to eat while you’re here!

A "quarter mutton" bunny at the Britannia Hotel, Durban, South Africa (Photo by Andrew Evans, National Geographic Traveler)

It is a sunny Sunday morning and sane people are in bed with the paper and a cup of tea—or else in church or on their way to the beach. But way out here in Inanda township, the house next door is blasting earth-shaking drums and wild marimba noise that stopped being fun after the first ten minutes. Now it’s just annoying—a too-long song that is much too loud.

“He would have tried to change them,” says Ashish Ramgobin, laughing. She refers to her great-grandfather merely as “he”, but the rest of the world knows him as Mahatma—Great Soul.

The two of us are standing on the roof of the newer house at Phoenix Settlement, founded by Mohandas Gandhi in 1904 right here in Durban, South Africa. It was here that he once trained leaders and activists in the cause of social justice and building a peaceful society. In that vein, he named his green tin-sided house Sarvodaya: “Well-being for all.”

But there is no peace this morning. Only the noisy neighbors and the daily scramble of life among a heap of ramshackle huts below: chickens squawk and barefoot children run screaming in the dirt. Even today, this hilly township is one of the poorest parts of the city.

“He was always trying to get people to live their lives differently,” explains Ashish, nodding towards the Africans next door. “. . . but come on, they’re just having a good time over there. Let ‘em be.” And so no call is made to the neighbors, and nobody asks them to shut up. Rather, we tolerate the boom-boom-boom just as we tolerate the heat from the sun over our heads. It’s barely ten, but Durban’s tropical warmth is not shy—and neither is Ashish.

The Indian woman continues to remember the man she never met, “You know, I’m not sure he had any fun in his lifetime. He was such a serious man.” She goes on to explain her “good times” philosophy: “Everyone just wants to have a good time, so if they’re not hurting anyone, why should we stop them from having a good time?” Ashish wears a black T-shirt branded with a caricature of Gandhi and one of his more quoted quotes: “An eye for an eye makes the whole world blind.”

What would Gandhi say to her today? She laughs at my question.

“Oh, Gandhi would have hated me! My mother tells me that all the time. I mean: I drink, I smoke, I eat meat!”

Her mother is Ela Gandhi, granddaughter of Mohandas Gandhi, and a former member of the South African parliament who represented this very area of Durban at the national level. Like most mothers and daughters, Ela and Ashish look and act nothing alike. Ela wears the traditional Indian sari, she is calm and soft-spoken and she venerates her grandfather with the kind of deep respect observed by both Indians and Africans towards their ancestors. She has spent her life continuing her grandfather’s vision as an activist for peace and justice in South Africa.

“Most people don’t know that Mahatma Gandhi spent his most important years in South Africa, right here in Durban,” she tells me with a quivering voice. The two of us are walking me through the backyard of Sarvodaya, behind the very house where Ela was born.

“This is where Gandhi became Gandhi,” she says. She shows me the house that they built with their own hands—part of Gandhi’s experiments towards self-sufficiency. She points to the fruit trees in the garden—mango, lemon—all of them planted by Gandhi himself.

“He wanted us to learn to be self-sufficient, and so we learned to make bricks and built our own house. It took us more than a year, but we did it.” Gandhi left Durban for India in 1914, leaving his son (Ela’s father) in charge of the Phoenix Settlement. For many years, Gandhi’s work and legacy continued, but in Ela’s lifetime, the angry politics of apartheid played out in her own backyard. In 1985, as the government pitted Africans against Indians, Ela watched as her neighbors and friends were forced to move out of their homes, one by one, then watched as their houses were burned to the ground. Her own home—the one that Gandhi built himself, the same home she was born in, was burned on the last day of the Inanda Riots.

As a family that has inspired the world with a message of non-violence, Ela’s family has known great violence. Her own father spent time in prison as he protested British laws in South Africa—so many of Ela’s family and friends were arrested, and her own grandfather was famously assassinated in India. And yet, today, among the green mango trees and a garden of memories, Ela focuses on her message of peace and tolerance.

Mahatma Gandhi said, “If we want to cultivate a true spirit of democracy, we cannot afford to be intolerant.” It is a simple truth, and it is the essence of South Africa’s success today. No matter where I travel in this country, I find a story of forgiveness and the tolerance that comes out of it. Sarvodaya was rebuilt in 2000 and dedicated by Thabo Mbeki as a peace memorial (and historic site). Ela shows me around the home and its exhibit detailing the global effects of Gandhi’s teachings: Indian independence, the American Civil Rights movement, Prague Spring, the fall of the Berlin Wall, the end of Apartheid. Indeed, in the last century, so much of human political progress finds its inspiration in Mahatma Gandhi, who found his inspiration right here in Durban.

Ela did not meet her grandfather until she was seven years old, but she remembers him clearly. “He was always very warm and he was always on time. If he said one o’clock, he meant one o’clock. He liked people who were punctual.”

She smiles at the statue in the garden—Gandhi’s bust under a columned rotunda, wearing glasses. “I am so glad they show him with spectacles,” she remarks. “You know, so often they take the spectacles away on the various statues, but he did wear spectacles. This is what he looked like.”

Now the neighbor’s noise has faded away, or else I have become used to it, and the garden seems like a wonderfully peaceful place to be. Around us is the squatter’s camp of shacks and shanties, named Bhambayi—an Africanized reference to Bombay and perhaps less chaotic than the real Mumbai. Indeed, the city of Durban is a kind of collision between India and Africa and my mind is still navigating the magical blend of two cultures around me. They are so different but they have lived together for more than a century—at times side by side, and now, quite literally—together.

I ask Ashish about this—as a Durban girl, what was her experience in this neighborhood?

“Oh it was different, that’s for sure. Things are much, much better now,” Ashish says, turning pensive. “I mean, my own daughter is growing up without any idea of what apartheid was like. She is growing up with freedom, and she will have a very different life.”

Gandhi’s great-great granddaughter is only six years old but she is South African. Like her mother says, she will grow up with freedom, because not so long ago, her great-great grandfather tolerated his neighbors. The family tolerated them to the point of their own house burning down, but in the end, they got them to change.

Sarvodaya, the home built by Gandhi in 1904 in Phoenix Settlement in Durban, South Africa (Photo by Andrew Evans, National Geographic Traveler)

That is the beauty of South Africa. Just drive a few miles and everything changes. Cape Town is lovely but now that I’ve arrived on the other side of the country, I must switch gears.

Durban is the center of KwaZulu-Natal, the great Zulu kingdom and the western fringe of the warm and wide-open Indian Ocean. Simply stepping off the plane immediately landed me in the afternoon heat and constant humidity of this booming port, known as eThekwini.

Zulu form the majority of this city and province, and so suddenly, I must relearn everything, starting with how to say thank you (Ngiyabonga!) 

Here’s my first attempt at speaking Zulu. Luckily, I’ve had a lot of help from the people in Durban in the past few days. I look forward to learning much, much more as I explore South Africa’s other city by the sea.

Nisale Kahle!

This is precisely why I shy away from instructing readers what to see and do in a place, especially one as rich and invigorating as Cape Town. We all enjoy very different things, so just come to Cape Town and have fun. It’s that easy.

But what did I do that I really liked? More than anywhere else? Well, everything, but these are a few of my favorite things . . . in Cape Town.

NATURE

The Lion's Head (Photo by Andrew Evans, National Geographic Traveler)

Part of the strange magic of Cape Town is that it’s a world-class city surrounded by out-of-this-world nature. The most obvious destination is Table Mountain, which I referred to as “a sundial for Cape Town.” Hike it or take the cable car, but definitely make it up to the top. If you are fortunate enough to be there for sunset, make sure you have someone with you (to kiss.) It’s unforgettably romantic.

Table Mountain National Park represents a whole network of separate and amazing parks, of which my favorite is Cape Point Nature Reserve at the Cape of Good Hope. Renting the cottage at beautiful Olifantsbos beach was the best getaway I’ve had all year (do it!). You cannot beat the peace, seclusion, and sound of the surf—and all of it less than an hour from the city center. At night, the stars shone brilliantly, and in the morning, I watched baby baboons follow their mother through the bushes. If you’re lucky (and I was very lucky), you’ll see one of the exceedingly rare Cape Mountain Zebra chewing in the fragrant fynbos.

Likewise, I loved Kirstenbosch Gardens and its living library of African plants—especially the protea. I could spend days flitting from one flower bush to the next. And last but not least, horseback riding along Noordhoek Beach was a total dream. Pro or first-timer, riding on this oversized stretch of clear sand was simply dreamy.

STREET

Phatiswa, a server at Lola's on Long Street (Photo by Andrew Evans, National Geographic Traveler)

The streets are alive in Cape Town . . . and pumping. Long Street gets a lot of attention and with good reason. Despite the presence of other travelers, the area has kept its native soul with a number of unexpected shops, hotels, bars and cafés. I did a number of laps up and down Long and every time it feels like a new street.

Cape Town’s street art scene is vibrant and happening now. If you like your graffiti big and beautiful, check out the murals just off Victoria Road in Woodstock, and take time to wander around the edges of District Six and The Fringe. Both areas are emerging from their own little dark age and it’s fun and encouraging to see the streets take life again. Start at the design-y and hipster Field Office.

Don’t you dare come to Cape Town without venturing into the townships, especially Langa, one of the largest and richest neighborhoods in South Africa. I found especially touching the mosaic memorial to Xolile Mose, a student killed during an anti-apartheid protest in 1976. I also had a wonderful time perusing African art and learning to play the marimba at Guga Sthebe, one of Langa’s cultural centers. Griling meat at Mzoli’s comes highly-recommended, and if you can manage it, go have a drink at a shabeen, (bars operated from people’s homes).

Last but not least, do not miss the Bo-Kaap and wear sunglasses—it’s bright!

EAT

Fresh-caught fish in Kalk Bay, Cape Town (Photo by Andrew Evans, National Geographic Traveler)

By far the best dinner I had in Cape Town was at Planet (the newish renaissance of the classic favorite Mount Nelson Hotel). If you like your food dressed up and divine, then eat here. My favorite café is Lola’s (on Long Street)—most of the clientele look like models (some of them are) and yet the food is big and filling and the mood very friendly and ambient. (I especially liked their fresh juice bar.) Bread, Milk and Honey is right next to the parliament and therefore, filled with politicos from morning ‘til night, so come have a sandwich with the big men and women government (the milk tarts get two thumbs up). For another quick and easy meal, dance into Eastern Bazaar where you’ll find out that in spite of its size, Cape Town is really just a town (Come here twice and you’ll run into someone you know).

Cape Malay cuisine is Cape Town’s history on a plate, and even if you tend to shy away from spicy food, I think you’ll find Cape Malay relatively mild. You’ll find several small cafés in the Bo-Kaap but I most enjoyed sitting down at the Noon Gun and dining on different curries while watching the city below. On the street, be sure wrap your mouth around koeksisters, a salome, and a boerwors roll (all fantastic), and if you’re traveling with friends, share a Gatsby—a gigantic sandwich that’s as mixed up and layered as Cape Town itself.

The best seafood I ate was at Two Oceans, down at Cape Point and the best steak I had in the city (no contest) was at Cape Royale hotel. If you think fine dining means sizzling meat, then go there. Mama Africa was made for tourists but I still found it a fun tradition—the kudu is truly yummy. Likewise, fish and chips at Kalky’s (in Kalk Bay) is kind of a Cape Town institution and locals love it with good reason. Get the snoek and plop on the red sauce—because it’s so very Cape Town!

Wine gets a special focus all around Cape Town, but if you’re a connoisseur, then you’ll want to visit Signal Hill Winery right in the oldest part of the city. Jean-Vincent Ridon makes his own vivid vintages using grapes grown right in the city. (Step into the courtyard and touch the oldest fruit-bearing grapevine in Africa.)

REST

Overlooking the ocean from Ellerman Spa (Photo by Andrew Evans, National Geographic Traveler)

I found Cape Town’s wild range of hotel options a big plus—you can sleep at a safe and clean hostel in the city center for next to nothing, or splurge big on something elegant and dramatic.

Right on the waterfront, the Cape Grace is iconic, classy and truly personal. Nothing is an afterthought in these big and beautiful rooms, so spoil yourself for a day or two and bask in grandeur while soaking in the fun vibe at the old port.

For even more pampering, check into Ellerman House, over in Bantry Bay. A quiet refuge overlooking the sea, the Ellerman feels like you’re at home in your own mansion which happens to be loaded with South African art. I loved the comfort of Ellerman, the “elegant-yet-casual” feel, and the killer fudge they stash out in the open for guests. (Their spa ain’t bad either.) In fact, I was surprised by all the wonderful spas in Cape Town. Not to miss? The Twelve Apostles Spa right underneath the row of rocks by the same name. Space-age and soothing, the African treatments (with organic, all-African products) were so very relaxing and the mood very pure and laid-back.

For business travelers, the Westin down in the CBD is sleek, comfy and comes with reliable wi-fi and a superb top-floor pool that lets you swim laps with a panoramic view. I stayed the longest at Protea Fire & Ice because it makes sense on so many levels: the location is ideal, the design is way cool, the staff were very switched on, and the restaurant serves about 40 different kinds of milkshakes. (What’s not to love?)

Finally, do yourself a favor and get up on the roof at Granddaddy. This is the world’s only rooftop Airstream trailer park/hotel in the world. I wrote about the place almost two years ago and loved the weirdness of the rural refuge perched in the canopy of the city.

EXPLORE

Colorful houses in the Bo-Kaap (Photo by Andrew Evans, National Geographic Traveler)

I loved, loved, loved the Two Oceans Aquarium and think that it’s one of the best in the world for kids. Horseback riding on Noordhoek beach was a real highlight for me–if you want a cinematic afternoon, then do it. The waterfront in Green Point is ideal for evening walks and morning runs and believe it or not, I had a blast riding the Wheel of Excellence down by the waterfront. If you’re a photographer, ride the wheel at sunset. If you don’t have a friend in South African parliament (like I do ) then consider taking the standard parliament tour. The buildings are historic, the stories important and I found it all exceptionally educational.

Otherwise, the mother city is your oyster. Just go and explore, like the settlers of old. Despite nearly spending three full weeks in Cape Town, I feel like I’ve only just scratched the surface of this jewel of a place. Honestly, as I sit here and reminisce about all my favorite things, it only makes me long to return sooner than later. So . . .

Totsiens Kaapstadt. (I’ll be back.)

Cape Town sunset from Ellerman House (Photo by Andrew Evans, National Geographic Traveler)

What people scrawl on the walls of the place they live says more about that place than any guidebook. That’s why I love good graffiti — I look for it almost everywhere I go and when I find it, I rejoice.

In that vein, the mother city Cape Town did not disappoint. This is such an inspiring city and it’s precisely this inspiration that draws artists from around the world to come and leave their creative mark among the vast blocks of unused warehouses in areas like Woodstock. Once the center of the city’s textile industry, Woodstock’s post-industrial renaissance has seen a shift towards creative businesses opening up in the area.

Any traveler wandering the streets of Cape Town is sure to run into some of these legendary murals, but to help me find them, I was lucky enough to spend the day wandering the streets with local artist Freddy Sam. He talked freely of his craft while showing me his own work and that of many talented graffiti artists, including Baomistura, Dodie Boy, and Mzayiya.

Here are some of the highlights of my great street art discoveries in Cape Town. Hopefully when I return, there will be even more to gawk at as I walk down the sidewalk.

I had already read enough to be good and scared—I knew about the oil tankers and cargo vessels, the clipper ships and iron-hulled battleships of old and not-so-old. Many large and seaworthy ships have met an ungracious end on Africa’s southwestern point—the one with such an optimistic name.

Almost absurdly, we were launching our skinny little kayak into these very same waters, pushing the pencil-thin fiberglass boat into the heaving surf. Each new wave began as a milky green-turquoise sheet that swept towards us in whoosh, rolling high, then collapsing with a crash onto the soft white beach at Olifantsbos.

The first wave stung my toes with cold; the second wave swallowed me whole, submersing me up to the waist in numbing water.

“10 degrees Celsius,” said Lewis with great certainty. I did not question my kayak’s captain. The man knows water temperature like a dog knows its owner. Lewis Pugh has swum incredible distances in some of the harshest conditions on Earth (not to mention every ocean). On his long list of amazing swims? The North Pole, where he swam a full kilometer in water that was –1.7° C (29° F), wearing only a Speedo and some goggles.

If Lewis said it was 10° C (50° F), than it probably was. I did not doubt him, but if my legs were not paralyzed from the cold, I probably would have walked right out of the ocean and marched back up onto the bright sun-warmed beach. Instead, I swung my legs into the boat and began paddling furiously against the rising swell.

My captain entered the sea with purpose and I followed his lead—left-right, left-right. I dipped the double-blade into the perfect water, all the while our fragile boat bobbed on the sea like a wobbly grain of rice. With each new wave, I expected us to capsize, dreading the possibility of swimming back to shore. These were not leisurely waters.

In 1488, Portuguese explorer Bartholomew Dias sailed around this point without even knowing it. The man was headed to India, but after more than seven months at sea, his impatient crew revolted and he was forced to turn back. It was only on his return that he “discovered” South Africa’s Cape which he aptly named “Cabo das Tormentas”—the Cape of Storms.

A steady southeasterly wind blows across the Cape constantly, some days stronger than others. It is the same wind that rocked me through my final stretch of the South Atlantic and the same wind which has broken up ships on the rocky shoals that necklace this southwestern point of the great Africa continent.

But today was different—today was perfect. There was not a cloud around and the sea seemed almost lazy: flat, shiny, barely breathing. As our kayak made out to sea, Lewis reminded me that these were perfect conditions, almost unprecedented. I wanted to believe him—the ocean surface was calm, the water remarkably clear. Gazing down, I could see the sandy sea bottom twenty feet below us, rippled with cheerful sunlight, and showing off a bright clearness that no backyard swimming pool will ever achieve.

The perfect visibility disappointed me greatly. It was the first time I did not want to be able to stare into the ocean. I was petrified about what I would see.

Lewis had warned me back on the beach, “When we encounter a great white shark, don’t panic. If we capsize, just stick to the boat. We’ll right her quickly and then climb back in. And if the sharks get too close, just whack it on the nose with you paddle. That should send them away.”

Lewis’s last-minute shark brief was not a dramatic overture—he offered me the truth like a plucky British sea captain, with the nonchalance of a man who has served in the SAS—the elite British special service (like our Navy Seals). Lewis was not trying to frighten me—he only wanted me (his one-man crew) to be ready for any unfortunate scenario.

But I was frightened, regardless. No matter that I have encountered sharks around the world—typically I am wearing dive gear and the sharks are very small and timid.  The waters we were kayaking in are particularly notorious, home to hundreds of very big, very dental great white sharks. It wasn’t a case of, “there might be sharks here.” They are there, most definitely. I just prayed not to see any of them while I was out on the sea, straddling a fiberglass hangnail of a boat.

Unlike the crew of Bartholomew Dias, I had no intention of revolting against my captain, the great Lewis Pugh. I knew that my life depended on his strength and general knowledge of the sea. We kept paddling, turning south and following the coast at a safe distance.

We chatted like new friends at a bridge party, swapping story for story. As I struggled to keep time, Lewis paddled in front. I stared at his head from behind, focusing on the salty drops of sea that shone in his hair and doing everything in my power not to think about great white sharks.

But then we entered a kelp forest, popping and sighing with the wavy sea plants that move with the sea. Suddenly, every piece of kelp looked like a shark fin, every splash of wave hinted at something large and alive in the water. As we paddled through the beautiful canopy of kelp, my mind saw a hundred shark fins all circling around our tiny craft.

“How do you swim in these waters?” I asked him. I was having a hard enough time simply kayaking without imagining a fishy beast appearing beneath us. Lewis did not need to imagine anything because it’s already happened to him. Once when he was swimming around the Cape of Good Hope (with another group of swimmers), a sizable great white shark swam up right beneath them. He could see it with his goggles, but he kept on swimming. The shark soon sped away.

Lewis tapped his head with one finger. “It’s all in your mind,” he answered. “If I let my mind get into that space of doubt and fear, than it’s already over.” Basically, don’t think about sharks, he said. Know that they are there, even swimming beneath you, but keep your mind focused on the goal.

So just what is his goal? This man who swims impossible distances in deathly cold waters, who dives into frigid seas filled with polar bears, leopard seals and great whites—why?

“Because it’s so important,” Lewis confides. His cause is simple: the Earth and the Earth’s water. Lewis is an active environmental campaigner, who uses his endurance swimming to highlight the dire plight of the planet.

“I want to be a voice for water,” he adds, while we pushed across the water. Smaller waves now appeared, rocking us even more than before. I tried to apply this man’s advice: Don’t focus on fear, focus on hope.

My only hope was to get back to shore alive. I was not looking for a medal or a hero’s welcome. I only wanted to make it.

Bartholomew Dias first made it around the point in 1488. Twelve years later, he returned to the Cape in hopes of actually making it to India. This time, he encountered a huge storm that sunk his ship. Bartholomew Dias drowned in a storm off the Cape he had personally named the Cape of Storms. It was the king of Portugal who changed the name to Cape of Good Hope—a kind of cartographic PR slogan describing the lucrative route to India.

Following Dias, all the early explorers rounded the Cape of Good Hope: Vasco de Gama, Captain Cook, Sir Francis Drake. For centuries, the Cape has marked the halfway point between home and abroad, here and there, the known world versus the unknown. When it comes to ships, the whole world intersects at this rock in the sea: Asia meets Europe, Africa meets Asia.

As a traveler, my journey in a kayak was only a symbolic tribute to the original explorers—a mere 10 kilometers instead of 10,000, but my aim was the same: to round the point and get to the other side.

I watched the Cape of Good Hope from our kayak—the shelves of rock and the perky promontory that sticks out of the sea, a rather meek mountain tribute to the huge significance of this dot on the map.

There it is, I thought: the Cape of Good Hope—and I did in fact feel hopeful. Arriving at the Cape meant that we were nearly halfway there. Like the sailors of long ago, we could rest assured that we’d made it this far and now the odds were in our favor.

But nothing is what it seems down in this part of the world. The Cape of Good Hope is not the southernmost point in Africa, nor is it a singular feature. The peninsula is actually split into two different capes—the Cape of Good Hope (on the west side) and Cape Point (to the South). In between the two outcroppings lies a closed-in stretch of pristine sand known as Dias Beach.

“I almost drowned there once,” Lewis told me, remembering one of his swims around the Cape when he intended to head into shore and got caught up in a spin cycle of surf.

Nearly everything that Lewis does in the water is a near-death experience. Most people would fall into irreversible hypothermia in the places he swims, but not Lewis. His body temperature always recovers—he always makes it, though he accepts that he is not invincible. If anything, Lewis knows everything that can go wrong in the ocean, and his work is to fight against all that is wrong with the ocean.

But even with Lewis by my side, I had no desire to swim around Cape Point. I only wanted to paddle upright. There were too many rocks—too many waves. The sea began to jump a little.

“You get two conflicting currents here—both oceans meeting and swirling together, so the water’s a bit strange,” Lewis explained, not panicking. We were at least one full kilometer from shore and our kayak was wobbling like a child in a chair. Lewis beat the sea back with his paddle—every wave that wished to throw us over, Lewis counter-splashed. I tried to follow his rhythm and suddenly our conversation grew very quiet. Suddenly we were sailors, negotiating with the sea, one wave at a time. Splish. Splash.

The two sides of the Cape are like two different countries with two very different color schemes. We had left the sunny west coast with its Mediterranean blues and had paddled into the unsettled seas at the Point before finally turning into the subdued grey-blue waters around the Point. After more than an hour of pushing against it, the current was on our side, the eternal southeasterly pushing us back into calmer, flatter waters.

False Bay opened up before us, with its promise of arrival, a separate world of water surrounded by shark-tooth mountains. I was still trying not to think about sharks, but this very bay reminded me of a shark’s open jaws, ringed with mountainous teeth.

We paddled on, now in a straight line towards a friendly beach. We’d only been at sea a mere two hours, but the weather was already changing. Back on shore, triumphant, I looked  back towards the point we had paddled round—the waves were bigger now, a tad angrier, more Cape of Storms than a cape of hope.

Lewis insisted we go for a victory swim, “This water’s warm!” he cried. “At least 14 degrees Celsius.” But 57° F is not warm water. At Buffels Bay, I fell into the waves behind Lewis and went into shock. I did a few strokes and watched Lewis swim far in front of me. He was happy as a seal, gliding in cold, cold water, a traveler that’s arrived at his destination.

Over and over again, travel teaches me not to be afraid of the world. Every day there is so much to fear, but each time I launch myself out into the world, I am acting on the great hope of travel: that we will make it, that the adventure will be memorable, that good weather will follow bad.

In a kayak on the sea, less than an hour outside of Cape Town, Lewis Pugh taught me not to be afraid. Everywhere in world is filled with something like a Great White Shark, but to worry too much about the unseen realities only cripples us and prevents us from getting the important things done.

No. Instead, we must travel in hope, like Bartholomew Dias did so long ago and like Lewis does with his hands and feet in the sea.

This will be my memory of the Cape—how I started with a real fear of tipping our kayak amongst very large sharks, but how we rounded the beautiful cape with the force of our own hands, pushing ourselves to the other side, hoping for the best and in the end, making it.

As travelers, that is all we can ask for—to make it safely to the other side. That is my constant prayer on every plane and train and boat. And it’s how I hope to live my life, always—with good hope.

A celebratory hot chocolate toast with Lewis Pugh after kayaking around the Cape of Good Hope.