Hole in this sand continue… June 25, 2008
Posted by dodo in : Accommodation, Africa, Cairo, Cape Town, Egypt, Flight Schedule, Hotels, Round The World, The Nile, Victoria Falls , trackbackThe portion of sea deemed “safe” for bathing and surfing is marked by blue flags and an umpire’s chair. Does the immaculately-whiteclad, handsome-but-unintelligent umpire decide whether each death by drowning was fair play? He watches black frogmen emerge from the sea; soon they will haul in their golden treasure chests, spraying the worm-bubbling sand with ingots and ducats. Ah! It’s only surfboards they’re groping for. They are just the unchic relatives of those lemon, turquoise and sugar pink rubber-clad surfing super-heroes; those men who crouch, crest, lurch, then swirl in with the spent breakers and scrabble ignominiously at your feet.
Meanwhile the children have found their second jellyfish. “Is it still alive?” they ask hopefully. You stare at the beached, transparent mound. “Well, I’m sure it’s dead,” you lie, remembering childhood stories of idyllic summers, invading Portuguese Men-of-War and infants killed by these floating plastic bags; “but perhaps we won’t swim today.” The protests start. “How about beachcombing? A bit further from the sea? In the dunes perhaps. See who can find the most unusual bit of metal or wood.” An hour later, you realise you could start your own scrap metal business from the debris in the dunes.
All afternoon an old man with the face of Picasso stands on the dunes, hands behind his back, staring out to sea. He’s still there as the sun sets spectacularly and you come panting back. Just standing by the rubbish bin. Staring profoundly at the sea. “Pardon!” you mutter, throwing Nivea bottles, apple cores, punctured balls and Camembert boxes wildly out of the bin over his feet. His gaze shifts as you locate a stained Sainsbury’s bag. His wise blue eyes fixed on you, he discourses on art, philosophy and death. Or could he be inquiring how your car keys came to be at the bottom of the bin, covered with sticky melon seeds?
Car keys? Well, of course, no realist these days actually sleeps in the hole in the sand. At a safe distance of twenty minutes is the car and the family tent, surrounded by pine trees, several hundred other cars and tents, and all the trappings (including toilets that don’t even smell French) of a 3-star Municipal Campsite. At the campsite you leave behind the flights-of-fancy of the beach. Here everyone is modestly dressed and cautiously behaved — even the family poodles. French social etiquette is best observed in the areas assigned for washing-up. The brow-beaten small man with two bowls of crockery (plates for first course, dinner-plates, side plates, salad bowls, fruit dishes, wine-glasses, coffee cups, pans, and extensive cutlery to match) might well commence a conversation with an attractive young woman, “Yours, I believe, is the charming dog three tents from ours?” They will be engrossed in details of the sleeping patterns and nocturnal walks demanded by their respective dogs, before his wife comes to reclaim him.
And beyond the campsite lies a small town. It looks like a cardboard model in lemon and pale blue, which can be folded flat and stored during the visitor-less winter months. The pharmacy is the most prosperous establishment, filled with exotic gilded perfumes and expensively packaged remedies for all ailments. The rest of the town comes to life when the market arrives. Traders ply you with their wares. You sip almond cognacs and taste the cheeses, Basque cakes, Vietnamese crisps and the pancakes, whilst declining to buy the amazing (look no butter!) pancake-pan.
Between the stalls of Indian and African fabrics you glimpse the bread, vegetables, fish and exotic cardigans. You perch on a stool at one of the busiest stalls and take a light lunch of champagne and local oysters.
But too much jostling can be fatiguing. You gather up the buckets and spades and head once more for the beach. You excavate two sand boats along the high-tide line from which the children can defy the incoming waves, then glance towards the dunes to check that Picasso is still meditating on the transcendence of the Atlantic. Reassured, you sink happily into your familiar hole, apply the ritual lotions and creams, place the token paperback on your stomach and stare vacantly at the blue sky, oblivious of all except the occasional roaring, swooping Mirage, mis-hit volleyball or hopeful shout of “Gláces Boissons!”
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