That supreme scourge of modern urban life, the build-up of traffic, leaves one with two simple choices: bilious irritation, or the adoption of a soothing inner calm. The latter is always preferable, even when the car in front of you sports a Blue Bulls sticker and Afriforum logo on its rear window.
As traffic jams go, the N1 flowing into central Cape Town is not the worst place to find yourself stationary among hundreds of others. In fact, if there were a global prize for Most Beautiful View from a Traffic Jam, the middle lane of the N1 from Plattekloof to the City Bowl would be a strong contender.
Ahead of you the sea lies stretched out in an endless pool of blue or silver, depending on the hue of the sky. And to the left, a sidelong view of Table Mountain, that imposing slab of rock preening above the rapidly expanding built-up entrails of Cape Town.
It is always the clouds, though, that fascinate me most. Their patterns are never, ever the same, as the weather gods lay out a different array of shapes, textures and densities each day, there where the sea reaches for the mountain and the dry land.
The best-known Cape cloud is surely the flat white cloth thrown over the tabletop of Table Mountain, with puffed-up bulges clinging to the side of Devil’s Peak. Spectacular, yes — but that tablecloth, which then spills down the mountain’s face in downy streamers, means the south-easter is blowing the crows’ eyebrows clean off. And when traffic finally releases you into the city, that wind flails body and soul with wholly undeserved fury.
Lion’s Head, beside Table Mountain, sometimes wears a white cloud that hangs over its crest and tumbles down its front, its intentions benevolent, for it usually heralds rain.
Those thin veils of cloud, delicately arranged against a clear blue sky, also suggest that a cold front may be on its way — nature’s signal that the tide is turning. And speaking of fronts, this one is a dramatic and beautiful mass of raw grey cloud, crashing in from the grey sea, accompanied by a raging north-wester.
Those from the northern and eastern parts of the country who think their piled-up anvil thunderheads constitute a storm should wait until the unfathomable depth of a Cape cloud front draws them in. The storm is felt in the very heart.
Clouds play with your consciousness. Sometimes a white breath hangs against the blue heavens that I could swear is shaped like a buffalo’s head. At other times, when the cloud layer drapes itself over Table Mountain, I see a face with two noses in that curtain of cloud.
Yes, it is imagination at work, and the soul-doctors call it pareidolia, a consequence of the way each of us processes visual information in the brain. And is that not the wonder of clouds: that a cloud can be anything you want it to be.
I adore clouds. My head is in them all the time.
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