| South African Golf |
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Page 4 of 8  It was twilight by the time we
retreated to the clubhouse and clambered into a Land Rover for a ride
down a rutted dirt road. Dusk settled, and the dense vegetation of
the bush receded into ever-shifting shadows. As if cued by a
conductor, the songbirds shushed and the sky became a symphony of
cooing nightjars and hooting owls. We rumbled to a halt at the
Olifants River Lodge, a thatched-roofed retreat at a bend in the
eponymous river. We sat in silence and looked out on the water. An
elephant emerged from the brush on an arthritic stroll for a
late-night drink. Austin shined a flashlight on the river, and the
surface danced with devil-red crocodile eyes.Later, on the drive back to Hans Merensky, Austin stopped the Land Rover, hopped out, and scurried into the bush. He squatted low and made a deep grunting sound, pained and plangent, like a giant with an epic case of constipation: his impersonation of a wounded wildebeest. When Austin stopped, we waited. And waited. Something rustled in the brush. Austin shined his flashlight. Alas. Impala. “I was hoping I’d get you a lion,” Austin said with a shrug. “But this is the bush. You want guarantees, go to the zoo.” On to Cape Town, fashion-shoot capital of the southern Hemisphere, the curvaceous city with the pretty face. Here dramatic peaks rise from a crescent of coastline, a necklace of coves burnished white by waves. Open-air bars share space along the water with yacht clubs and freshly minted condos—a beach-chic vibe suited to both surf dudes and photo stylists. There are shanties, too, though the city tries hard not to show its scars. Even Robben Island, the offshore prison where Nelson Mandela was held captive, bobs benignly on the horizon, like a background prop for a supermodel’s pose. That afternoon, I watched a packed cable car climb slowly up Table Mountain, the flat-topped star of a thousand postcards, its plateau summit clothed in clouds. Then I wandered out to Cape Point, a bluff overlooking the meeting of the Indian and Atlantic oceans, and watched a baboon separate a hiker from his backpack. Note to visiting outdoorsmen: Conceal your snacks. Such indignities would never be inflicted at Royal Cape Golf Club, the colonial time capsule where I teed up the following day. Established in 1885, South Africa’s oldest golf course boasts rich British bloodlines, a kinship celebrated by a plaque above the putting green. (The club received its “Royal” designation from King George V in 1910.) Royal Cape’s dress code (collared shirts, tucked in!) was rigidly enforced, and around the practice grounds men spoke in the manner of Thurston Howell III while their female companions punctuated conversations with not entirely convincing “Oh, dear me”s. |
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