Goodbye party house
I hope those who lived there are still dancing, wherever you are. You used to make my day
Gentrification. Such an emotive word. If you are on one side of it, your ability to be closer to employment and reduce your daily commute is killed. If you are on the other side, especially if you buy the worst house on the block and fix it, it can be your path to financial freedom.
Disclaimer: this piece is based entirely on my recollection and experiences with absolutely no real research. Timelines and facts may well be totally wrong.
A brief account of Cape Town over the past forty years
The inner city of Cape Town has gone through a few cycles in my lifetime. When I started working in the 80’s, there were many large businesses in the city, and a smoothly running bus service assisted with my commute from the suburbs. We were wary about walking to the station after work, but we still did. I recall once being accosted by a large man in a yellow jersey on my way to the bus.
He appeared out of nowhere as I walked down one of the streets that crossed Adderley Street. It was dark. He planted his feet in what felt to me like a confrontational stance, a few feet apart, and just glared at me. He did not say anything, but there was nothing benevolent about the scene. I knew that despite my then extensive martial arts training (no joke – I once held a black belt), I would never be able to take him on. I doubted that I could have outrun him either.
Showdown with a small yellow elephant
I decided to stand my ground and just stared back, trying to figure out how to get out of the situation. An image of him, or perhaps his mom, buying that v-neck jersey from Woolies flashed into my head. He slowly lifted one foot, putting it down again like a miniature breed yellow elephant getting ready to charge. He did this again and again while I stood still.
I do not know how long the staring contest lasted. I was saved by a man at the other end of the street getting out of his car. ‘Hey, what’s going on?’ he shouted.
The small yellow elephant turned around and walked away.
The exodus
Sometime in the 90’s businesses started moving out of the inner city, some to Claremont, some to the Waterfront, while a cycle of decay mixed with an odd spattering of loft apartments and trendy cafes took hold. Mavericks used to be the trendy East City Café, and the Townhouse hotel had the best gym. At some point Adult World was right next to a pie shop across from Cape Union Mart selling outdoor gear. All your needs in one block, I suppose. Today that area is still bustling but with a very different mix of businesses.
Around that time the Celtic Tiger was gaining power and it is said that an Irish syndicate bought up a handful of large buildings around Wale Street for a few million, which by all standards was indeed a song.
The Taj took over the home of BoE, a very old private banking and wealth business (since also gone, swallowed up by a large bank), and more fancy apartments popped up. Today, the city remains a fascinating mix of sophistication, decay, entrepreneurship and a retail mix of very low end and high end alike.
Goodbye party house
For the past three decades I have been living in Camps Bay, a poster child for gentrification, with elderly inhabitants paying several times more than their mortage payments used to be in property rates. It has become a much more aggressive environment with aggressive driving, dressing and behaviour alongside bigger and bigger dwelling footprints, pushing or breaking the boundaries of the already generous building regulations.
My frequent morning walk to the beach has borne witness to many complete knockdowns and mostly I just shrug and accept it as inevitable progress. The first pang of sadness came a few months ago when a run-down house with rather scary owls painted on the outside was flattened. I never knew who lived there, but something interesting must have gone on in that rambling house. I imagine some sort of healing and truth saying, perhaps with some fluid interpretive swaying. I will never know now.
A more painful blow came when a dilapidated 70s house with a large lookout deck just vanished the other day, leaving an empty plot behind that looked far too big to have just contained that house. I did not know the people who lived there either, but I have seen them dancing and laughing on that deck, waving to me as I walked past, even though I don’t remember ever hearing any music. It looked like a happy house. It was full of dark wood that needed sanding and a coat of oil, with apple green awnings that should have been replaced decades ago, frayed edges joining the daylight dancers in the wind.
That house was one of the constants on my walks down to the beach. It compelled me to look up and see life beyond the shine of concrete and glass that seemed everywhere else. Like a Dorian Gray portrait, the house fell into disrepair as the years went on, but somehow the people on the deck always looked young to me despite the decades moving along. They were friendly.
The party house is gone and I am sad about it.
Perhaps I am just getting old and that is ok. Perhaps it is time to start dancing on my balcony and waving at passersby.