THE MUNICIPAL BATHS on LONG STREET, CAPE TOWN
Sucked out my airtight hotel into the humming breeze of Cape Town Streets I see a cool, low, white facade and 'Baths' picked out in arts and crafts scroll. Cemented there so long ago I wonder if it still is. The white wood door is open and inside I find a tiny turnstile in painted iron and a twenty one rand (£1) entrance fee. I resolve, of course, to go back.
Returning with my swim suit hours later I hear a strange bird call from inside. I pay at the glass office,watching the uniformed man rubbing his head in the tiled, dim-lit atrium, illuminated by a sky-light. Venturing through the blind doorway, I discover the bird calls are coming from a small boy with big eyes. He stands with his hands behind him against the ancient tiles - recognising that he is in some kind of paradise he heralds me and this watery temple with an angelic chorus of bird screeches, he also stops me from wandering into the wrong changing rooms ; "No! No" he pauses his hymn ,his eyes widen, "That's the men's!"
Suited and towelled I move timidly into the pool room. Church like the transparent corrugated panels run the length of the roof, the original simple metal frames swoop across reminding me of all the halls and gyms I have ever known. Yellow diffused light floods in and a wall of frosted glass at the far end is framed by shelves on which stand a beleaguered collection of pot plants that need watering. A doorway in the centre is open to the Suns furnace, the pure hot orange pigment of heat clashing wildly with the teal hue inside. I poke my head out and see a concrete heat trap - a boy lying on a wooden bench in the sun, a father chasing his toddler and a woman lying down, lost in a reverie which is evidently hotting up - a bent leg sways gently as she grins and bites her finger on one hand replying rapidly with the other to the texts that ping like feverish kisses from her lover.
Turning back, I take in the scene, a woman breastfeeding her tiny baby, the life guard in yellow scans the pool for heavy petting and small children splash in the shallow pee-wee pool. Aptly named I have always thought.
A twenty year old mural runs the length and height of the brick wall on my left and on my right a bank of stepped seating that sit beneath a separate sloped loggia of fine pillars. A silhouette of a Victorian man and woman in evening dress illustrates the sign which reads spectators only. No-one is swimming lengths as I ease myself into the tepid, refreshing water, at the deep end boys race widths in pairs, I begin a snail pace breaststroke, treading water as tiny arms flail in a splashing crawl race in front of me, euphoric calls of victory as one touches first. I pause further, are they coming back?No? I paddle on.
Turning back my attention is drawn to the mural. A reflection of the pool in its higher state. Ecclesiastical windows shine divine light onto a yellow blue ocean and the heavenly congregation sit and stand wearing woollen hats and jackets, swimming trunks and head scarfs on its tiled banks. It is this place as a de-segregated utopia of tolerance and peace, and while large sections peel away leaving patches to match the municipal pall of the other walls I cannot take my eyes from it. Suddenly all the boys decide to race, churning the water with flailing legs and arms an electric current surges through me, my soul soars as I snail crawl on. Slower still, an old man sits in quiet meditation in the spectator stands, enjoying the view.
Returning with my swim suit hours later I hear a strange bird call from inside. I pay at the glass office,watching the uniformed man rubbing his head in the tiled, dim-lit atrium, illuminated by a sky-light. Venturing through the blind doorway, I discover the bird calls are coming from a small boy with big eyes. He stands with his hands behind him against the ancient tiles - recognising that he is in some kind of paradise he heralds me and this watery temple with an angelic chorus of bird screeches, he also stops me from wandering into the wrong changing rooms ; "No! No" he pauses his hymn ,his eyes widen, "That's the men's!"
Suited and towelled I move timidly into the pool room. Church like the transparent corrugated panels run the length of the roof, the original simple metal frames swoop across reminding me of all the halls and gyms I have ever known. Yellow diffused light floods in and a wall of frosted glass at the far end is framed by shelves on which stand a beleaguered collection of pot plants that need watering. A doorway in the centre is open to the Suns furnace, the pure hot orange pigment of heat clashing wildly with the teal hue inside. I poke my head out and see a concrete heat trap - a boy lying on a wooden bench in the sun, a father chasing his toddler and a woman lying down, lost in a reverie which is evidently hotting up - a bent leg sways gently as she grins and bites her finger on one hand replying rapidly with the other to the texts that ping like feverish kisses from her lover.
Turning back, I take in the scene, a woman breastfeeding her tiny baby, the life guard in yellow scans the pool for heavy petting and small children splash in the shallow pee-wee pool. Aptly named I have always thought.
A twenty year old mural runs the length and height of the brick wall on my left and on my right a bank of stepped seating that sit beneath a separate sloped loggia of fine pillars. A silhouette of a Victorian man and woman in evening dress illustrates the sign which reads spectators only. No-one is swimming lengths as I ease myself into the tepid, refreshing water, at the deep end boys race widths in pairs, I begin a snail pace breaststroke, treading water as tiny arms flail in a splashing crawl race in front of me, euphoric calls of victory as one touches first. I pause further, are they coming back?No? I paddle on.
Turning back my attention is drawn to the mural. A reflection of the pool in its higher state. Ecclesiastical windows shine divine light onto a yellow blue ocean and the heavenly congregation sit and stand wearing woollen hats and jackets, swimming trunks and head scarfs on its tiled banks. It is this place as a de-segregated utopia of tolerance and peace, and while large sections peel away leaving patches to match the municipal pall of the other walls I cannot take my eyes from it. Suddenly all the boys decide to race, churning the water with flailing legs and arms an electric current surges through me, my soul soars as I snail crawl on. Slower still, an old man sits in quiet meditation in the spectator stands, enjoying the view.
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