‘That little girl is going to be a model one day.’ Is not a sentence anyone should ever utter. Least of all when pointing to the top of a slide at a 4-year-old in a water park when you have no children yourself. You may think that doesn’t need to be pointed out, and you’re right. But, this is Langebaan.
Langebaan, if you don’t know, because I didn’t before we lived in the Cape, is a small town built around a Lagoon on the West Coast of South Africa. It’s beautiful but windy. Kite surfers come from around the world to play on the turquoise water, resting after with a cocktail at Rocxi’s. I don’t understand the spelling and I’m too afraid to ask. Langebaan is quiet, relatively crime-free and great for children. This created a vacuum that pulls 62 families here a month. I’m pretty sure that’s bullshit, but it gives you an idea. My source is a personal trainer.
This influx of post-riot Durbanites and post-pandemic inlanders created two very distinct groups here in the ‘Baan’ as it’s delightfully referred to by both. You’re probably thinking English and Afrikaans and you’re close. It’s the people who have lived in Langebaan and those who arrived after COVID did. I was made aware of how unwelcome semi-immigrants were when I visited a clothing shop in the Laguna Mall. A mall, here in Langebaan. Named after the Lagoon that it surrounds. It’s beautiful. The Lagoon, not the mall. I’ve paddled out on it once. The Lagoon, not the mall. The kayak vendor is exceptionally passionate about his job. Once you rent your kayak for 60 minutes, he speaks to you for 45 of them, giving you 15 minutes to get around Skaapen Island and back. His operation is just outside Pearly’s, another restaurant, which sits snugly next to Rocxi’s.
I remember foolishly arriving and trying to remember everyone’s name because I was part of a community. I’m part of fuck-all. Just ask Rudi at Ginger Beanz. They also own the only martial arts school in the village. I hope he doesn’t remember who I am, if and when I decide to publish this. I was invited to go to Jiu-Jujitsu lessons with them but I prefer to get fucked up at Kokomo’s. That’s how you successfully name every-single eatery in Langebaan outside Mykonos in 372 words. They teach Jiu-Jujitsu at the Oxigym. It’s a gym with a whimsical name. I go there. It’s relatively normal apart from the guy who stares at everyone and the guy who sings out loud to himself. I am both. Everyone greets anyone — except me. The staff there are unreal. I’ve never come across more attentive people. Whoever owns that place should add naming and training to their skills on LinkedIn.
I’m fitting a lot into very little here, I’m sorry, I’ve not written in two years and it’s a little like learning to walk. Like our local hobo who uses a three wood for a walking stick and slams on the window of Weskus Coffee, a deeply Christian coffee house where they play worship music all day except Sunday. Every day at three, our local hobo walks up to the window, slams it and bellows ‘POES!’ Except on Sundays. Everyone is angered by this, except me. It’s exactly how’d I spend my time if I had a lot of it.
My daughter’s school is exceptional and part of the three-tiered reason we decided to move here. I love dropping her off in the morning, everyone is friendly, and I say hi to everyone, including the cook. The first rule of school. Ensure you’re best friends with the person cooking the food. All the teachers are lovely. Gertie is my favourite. I’ve even forgiven her for introducing my daughter to Afrikaans boy band Eden. She’s undone a lot of hard work in the pandemic teaching her the words to Break Ya Neck. My daughter not Gertie.
At a 4th birthday party at Sunny Park, which is a water park here that is at 1:1 scale with a Barbie water slide, it has trampolines that keep the local ambulance busy, when it’s not removing people dead of old age from the Country Estate. The water in the park is two parts water and one part urine.
I arrived at the party and I was busy learning everyone’s name when I started chatting with a shorter gentleman. I knew he wasn’t a child because of his beard.
“Which one is your child?” I asked.
“I don’t have children.”
I was taken aback by how calm he was about this. I avoid any situation in which I might be mistaken for a peado.
“I came with that lady, her husband is working overseas and she asked me to come with her.”
His third sentence he has ever uttered to me…
“That little girl is going to be a model one day.”
“Hey?” I asked. My eyebrows shot to the top of my head.
“That little one on the top of the slide is going to be a model one day, your daughter, I can see, is going to be a doctor.”
I was furious. How dare he?
My daughter is beautiful. She can be anything that she wants
