Stellenbosch, Spier Winery, and A Terrible Massage

After a lively stay in Cape Town, we did an overnight in Stellenbosch, a colonial-ish university town surrounded by thick vineyards. We thought this would be our opportunity to finally slow down, drink wine, and relax for once. More than a few friends recommended going to Spier, famous for a few reasons: wine (duh), their farm-to-table food sources (omg), and an all day kids club (hooray!) 

In short, it was delicious, nice, and pretty. But, not particularly relaxing- because the minute we laid eyes on the black and yellow cruiser bikes, we all gained a second wind. We couldn't just not ride, so we brought the kids to their club and took off as if we were starring in a summer romance film in the country side. I loved every second of it, plus Mark took the kids on a bike ride while I could escape for an hour to get a relaxing massage. However, I am pretty sure I just don't know how to relax...

A five foot tall, 20-year old man-teen with a sparse goatee and meat-packer hands called me into the room. I made my usual idle chit-chat and during my massage I managed to learn the following: he's 1/2 Afrikaaner, 1/2 German, and 1/2 Portuguese (verbatim). The latter is why he likes spicy food so much. Though he's never left South Africa,  his dream is to travel to the United States and visit... Kansas... for no known reasons other than "it speaks to me" and that he likes the color yellow.  He loves gaming, hates his parents, and considers himself the black sheep of the family. Lastly, he hasn't quite graduated from massage school yet, but he knows deep in his heart that aromatherapy is a holistic-health game changer. He just couldn't stop talking! But I guess it's not his fault, I couldn't stop responding. 

As we came to the near end, I figured he'd finish the massage with arms and hands, my absolute favorite part. Apparently, that is an extra 250 Rand (17 USD), and proceeded to the scalp massage instead. He announced he'd be doing something different and not asking to see if I'd care.  Like an oily baptism, he ladled directly onto my face and proceeded to rub his hitch hiker thumbs into my 3rd eye. It felt like a mother sternly rubbing dirt off her kid's face, but grosser and totally unrelaxing. Then he palmed both sides of my head and squeezed it like a cantaloupe. With that, he left me to gather my leaked brains and get dressed. 

Now, I had a feeling he used a bit of oil, but I didn't know how much until I stood up. I wiped out taking bottles of lotions and the bedding with me. No one can make a graceful exit after that, but I held my lubricated head high as best I could, and strolled out the door like I did that sort of thing every day. I found Mark who had just dropped the kids off at their club. We drank some wine, ate dinner and laughed at my non-relaxful, sopping existence before preparing ourselves for a full day driving back to southern Namibia. 

The only photo I took that day, and I was of a tireD cow in Stellenbosch.
I guess I was too busy drinking wine and getting slopped on.

My First Greasy Jeitinho*

*Jeitinho: comes from the expression "dar um jeito," literally- "find a way." It implies the use of resources at hand, as well as personal connections, and creativity. -Wikipedia

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Ever since we arrived, I had been battling my stroller. I would muscle through the turns, dodging potholes and curbs or dragging it backwards through the compact sand just to ensure my rug rats would have a place to rest (or rather- be contained) once we wandered farther than 500 yards from the apartment building. I ignored all my pulled muscles and achy rib cage at the same time complaining to Mark how I needed to get some grease for the wheels. His natural, problem solving response was "Then this weekend, we will head to a bike shop and pick up some grease." Seeing as how this is the only place I have ever purchased grease, it seemed like a sensible idea.

I refused to wait until Saturday so on Friday, I spent some time on the Internet checking out local bike shops and mapped my way. I decided the stroller wouldn't be worth my time since its condition deteriorated rapidly with a nearly frozen front wheel. With Margo in the backpack and Deets willing to walk so long as I promised him popcorn afterwards, we headed out for our projected 15 minute walk. Thirty minutes later I walked into the store carrying both kids; one about ready to pee himself, the other very eager to get away from my sweaty self.

First thing she sees: chairs and table. First thing she (repeatedly) says: "I'm hungry."

Chatting with the local bike mechanic (in Portuguese! -mark), I asked where they keep their bike grease. He stared at me blankly. Clearly no one ever asked him this question, or maybe he didn't understand my accent. Turns out it was neither- they simply don't sell grease. Like, ever. He showed me his store's single tube of industrial blue grease and pointed out that all people in Recife bring their bikes in for maintenance. No one ever does it themselves. Well I refused to give up and asked him if they could at least sell me a little dab of it, I'd even take it wrapped in toilet paper or a coffee cup. Apparently that was absurd request and whilst laughing me, I asked where I could find a tube to purchase. He responds with, "Go that way 10km and you will find a construction store. They can sell you grease." And he walked away.

Well okay then. Relieved at least to be in some air conditioning, the kids found the store's toys and happily played fought over the plastic-rocking-chair-snail-thing, and running laps around their store. I sat down to formulate my next plan, and ten minutes later the mechanic walked back up to me and said they were trying to figure out if they could sell me their sole tube of grease. Conferring with four other staff members, they finally agreed: 15 Reais, or about 6.15 USD. Before they could change their minds, I accepted immediately and while I was waiting for a sixth staff member to come to the register (only she could ring me up) I asked the mechanic what type of bike he owned. He laughs again, (just as Deets knocks over the torso of a mannequin) and explains to me not only does he not own a bike, he doesn't ride either. The bike mechanic. Go figure. He then asks me if I am from Norway. That was pretty cute.

I also met the store owner who called himself Robinson. He thanked me for coming into his store and then he told me all about his recent trip to Miami, followed by the question "do you know so-and-so at the Consulate?"  He said he was happy to make a special exception in selling the grease to me. When I thought about this special dispensation, it made sense because I guess most people on the US prefer bike specialists to fix their bicycles as well. Like Mark, my brother is also a well skilled bike mechanic agreed to this theory. He laughed, remembering the thousands of bikes he'd maintained or fixed that never once saw a drop of grease or lube. Or a bike pump for that matter.

Victory was mine. I walked away with grease, two relatively happy kids who got to blow off steam (though they were supremely annoyed that I wasn't buying them new bikes or helmets) and the name of a good bike shop should I need one in the future. I plan to grease everything that I can in my house now. 

My one and only true form of transportation/punishment for the kids.

Jim's leash has practically rusted from the ocean. 

After repeatedly scraping my knuckles trying to slide open the lock.

Mark's knee.