"Local is lekker," they said urging us to tuck into the just-off-the-coals fish with our fingers. "Local is better," we agree. Hands—black, brown and white—reach for bread, sweet potatoes and the barbequed fish. A South African braai has, we discover, distinct traditions. Our new Strandvelder friends, descendants of the San Bushmen, teach us the ropes.

The guys, in this case Hendrik, a host, and Andy, my nephew, make the fires—one for fish and one for bread—while drinking the requisite amount of beer. This takes about three hours. The women, in the meantime, get the fish and bread ready to grill, boil purple sweet potatoes, talk United States politics of race, South African politics of AIDS, tell jokes, run down the latest fashions and knock back a few ourselves. Then, we eat the local way, with our fingers. The guys promote each other—Hendrik, just starting his trekking/guiding business to the best tour guide in Africa and Andy, only contemplating law school, to Hendrik’s attorney. Departing, we proclaim "local is lekker," leaving Hendrik practicing a nonchalant "call my attorney."

Let others chase South Africa’s big beasts, we’re chasing a rainbow: the rainbow of people who make up this post-apartheid nation with its eleven official languages. Our trip is a college graduation present for my nephew. So, with all due moderation, I just hope to laugh, bond, expand his mind, exceed his expectations and create memories he’ll cherish eternally.

"It’s like the treasure hunts you used to make for my birthday," Andy says poring over our latest fax from Dreamcatcher, the dyno trip planner I’ve found. With roots in helping black entrepreneurs claim their piece of a growing tourism pie and joined by like-minded white businesses, Dreamcatcher’s post-apartheid travel routes span the rainbow as well as the nation. With a loose plan for our three-week driving sojourn in place, every few days a fax arrives to fill in the details. From Durban to Cape Town, we’ll meet the people, visit their work and stay in their homes along with guest houses, B and B’s and nice—not pricey—hotels. Homestays, a Dreamcatcher specialty, include a tidy room or two—with exclusive use of a bath—and breakfast. Soccer scores, stories, laughs and hugs are free.

Whizzing out of modern Durban, a cultural curry of urban Zulus and whites spiced with Indians, we head for the Eastern Cape, the land of Mandela’s birth. Xhosa villages of scrawny goats and mud huts with conical grass roofs scatter across the dry, scrubby veld. It feels like another century. The ratty, jiving central town of Umtata feels like another country—one with no trace of South Africa’s gold and diamond wealth. Previously called the Transkei, this was one of apartheid’s all-black homelands, post-apartheid progress—new housing, office buildings and a nice hotel—shows around the edges.

Port Elizabeth, PE for short, is our first stay-put stop. Donning wet suits, we jump a boat that leaves from one of PE’s downtown beaches for a look under these southern seas. The cold water, neon-lime sponges, cooked-lobster-red sea fans and a ragged-tooth shark take our breath away. Nearby, the Addo Elephant Park, begun in 1931 to protect eleven elephants is aiming for the Big Seven—that’s the Big Five (the five most dangerous animals to hunt on foot) plus sharks and whales off the coast.

A teacher at Knynsa’s first secondary school for tribal blacks invites us to visit. Eager learners with ready smiles, the Xhosa kids let their questions fly: "Did Bush invade Iraq because of oil? What does America look like? Would you like to meet Mandela? …and to Andy, "Are you married?"

From PE west to Mossel Bay, South Africa’s N2 is called the Garden Route. Broad expanses butt against forested mountains and iron-red cliffs heaved-high against a royal-blue sky. Then there’s the coast: rocky headlands, half-moon coves, tawny dunes and lacy, long bridges over rowdy rivers. It’s one of the world’s great drives.

Stopping inland at George, we stay with a couple who’d farmed near the big game park, Kruger. Their main pests were puberty-riddled male elephants vying with each other to see who could rip up the most trees in their orchards. George’s show-stopper, on the other hand, is the fire-orange garbed Xhosa Khulani women who, faces chalked with dots and flourishes, dance and drum their traditional tales. They reappear in pants, puffing on long pipes. Morphed into tipsy men, they enact the antics, false pride and puffery that bedevils the negotiations for the price of a bride.

The original dreamcatcher, Anthea Rossouw, is down the coast in the now-combined towns of Stillbaai and Melkhoutfontein. She’s visiting her old pals the Strandvelders. Back in 1989, this bubbly, blond force field, drove the Strandvelder patriarch, Moses Kleinhans home. From her Stillbaai of beachside cottages, trophy homes and modern conveniences, they went down the road to his Melkhoutfontein of shanties, mud roads and no running water or electricity. "My people are actually dying," Moses told Anthea, "They're dying of TB, they're dying of hunger," She offered her help and they powered up. Just fifteen years later, we’re here toasting "local is lekker" with the up-and-coming Strandvelders. It’s taken us a couple of days to see and do everything their tourist business offers—hikes to caves where their ancestors dwelled, a new restaurant, homestays and tours—tours of the now thriving, paved and electrified Melkhoutfontein. Moses gave Anthea the moniker dreamcatcher before he died. She passed it on to the organization she created that dreams-up these glimpses into South Africa’s soul.

Munching traditional Afrikaner grape-yeast bread in our next B and B, we keep an eye out for whales in Hermanus Bay. Stella, our white hostess, says of the end of apartheid, "a great weight has been lifted from our shoulders. We too are free." Tears moisten her face as she tells of the graduation she’s just attended. Archbishop Desmond Tutu was there and so were the families of the first black graduates of the country’s most prestigious business school—the cries of their women ululating as each received their diploma.

Heading north into wine country, we stay with a Nuy Valley family that’s farmed here for five generations, grown grapes for three and been innkeepers for less than one. Our spirited stay includes rooms at their white gabled, green trimmed Cape Dutch farmhouse, a tour of their winery and a beer and boerewors (spicy sausage) braai.

In Paarl, another wine country "pearl," Mandela took his first free steps after 10,000 days in prison. At our homestay, Kristal’s boys tutor Andy in cricket. Katie plies us with bacon and eggs and Dawi, who built this house, tells us of their "long walk to freedom." Starting when they could not walk on the sidewalks—not when whites were around—and ending with trips to Robben Island to see their imprisoned son.

"We did have computers, but they’ve been taken—affirmative shopping," Titus, the son, jokes as we tour the community center and craft shop he directs. "Yes, I visited Robben Island—for about five years," he acknowledges. Titus explains the ANC’s collective decision-making on the Island. "Mandela always said we." Stopping as if remembering something, he continues, "except when he was really angry. Then he would point his finger," Titus says, pointing his own long black finger, "and say I."

Dreamcatcher is not a traditional travel agent, but a personalized route planner, Dreamcatcher reserves cars, organizes activities and books rooms from homestays to hotel stays. They can book any of the acomodations in this article
E-mail: dreamcatcher@telkomsa.net

Pro Dive is a good, safe and eco-conscious diving outfit.

South African Airways flies direct from Atlanta and JFK. 
Phone: 800-722-9675

South African Tourism has a great site with lots of pictures and information. They also graciously supplied the first picture on this page of Cape Town's Table Mountain.