THOUGH there’s a lot less carnage on the banks of the Liesbeeck than in the 1600s when it was renowned for its wild tavern parties and wars between foreign whities and wandering ‘Hottentots’, Observatory is still cooking up an edgy cosmopolitan storm.

 

AS dyed-in-the-wool Obs emigres, we’ve got a bit blasé about our buzzy bit of Bohemia east of Cape Town, but a recent visit by overseas friends reminded us to indulge more deeply of the mindblast on our once-Victorian doorstep.

The centre of the Observatory universe, with its quaint Victorian architecture – shops below, residences with cast-iron broekie lace balconies above – is funky Lower Main Road, which, though it has a strong hippie vibe, has gradually acquired an upmarket veneer.

First stop is Stones rolling pool hall, upstairs from Diva’s. Everything – from colliding pool cues to cool eliding bodies – vibrates in this spot with its 70s decor. And although hats – as one of our group with a headdress fetish found – are forbidden, the wizard of Obs at the bar made up for it with swift delivery of a lager with lime, no problem!

Next stop, while still in strident student mode: the Obs leg of the reggae-themed Cool Runnings franchise. Bru, Bob might be a bit bamboozled by this Babylon, but the unanimous decision by all parents present was that the times they have a-changed. Or maybe it was just that we had obscenely hallowed memories of darker times when as students in struggle we’d rave the night away here (in what was then the Heidelberg Tavern) to the Cherry-Faced Lurchers and Josh Sithole, before the place was blasted away in protest of apartheid. Clearly the new smiley student lot, a global rainbow mix of Goth and gauche, had matters of less painful relevance to discuss.

Dinner is at Diva’s – African Italian with a gypsy ambience. It’s relaxed and convivial, and, in addition to an imaginative selection of pizza, pasta and wall frescoes, the waitrons are super-prescient. (The hangover and uitsmyter breakfasts are also to die for, as our guests discovered after a wake-up call by Nigerian evangelists doing their early-morning Sunday thing in the school hall opposite our house.)

Nightcap time, and off down past resident hobos (who are as much a part of the landscape as the Victoriana) and fastfood hawkers still doing a roaring trade, to A Touch of Madness, whose self-advertisement as a “Victorian quaffery” is not far off the mark. An offshoot of the recently deceased Carte Blanche, this high-ceilinged old house is cosy, quaint and as risqué as any unrespectable East Village or East End hangout. An avant garde bohemian/Victorian cross, it’s kept continually alive by the crazy presence of an Indian waiter whose camp sense of humour and wild guffaw engages patrons of all descriptions. Complete with real-life Dickensian characters like a pot-bellied Pickwick punching out poetry on his cellphone, the quaffery has an off-the-wall intellectual underbelly not for the narrow-minded. Zebulon Dread, the hardcore author of ‘Hei Voetsek’ and a number of establishment-bashing books informed our guests. “I could be rich, but I refused to compromise and went with my soul in the name of art”. Though he’s been in Obs forever, he’s finally decided an ashram in India is the only place for him and his home-schooled family. “You better be careful what you ask for. I spent my life asking for spiritual enlightenment; I can tell you, once you’ve got it, there is no going back. I might be holding a conversation and look like I’m here, but man, I’m so far away.”

Besides an unashamed loyalty to an area which managed to maintain ‘mixed’ living throughout the apartheid years, it’s the sheer progress of the place which keeps us marvelling. Since we moved here 15 years ago, we’ve witnessed the gradual mushrooming of Lower Main Road, with its double-storey Victorian buildings (shops below, residences with cast-iron broekie lace balconies above) into an offbeat mini-town with an annual festival that has even seen a local Lady Godiva bare her wares on a white horse. A little less prestigious than a 1898 church bazaar with fortune-telling gypsies and elephant rides attended by the sultan of Zanzibar, but a strong zen for the exotic and spiritual there still is. Situated on one of them spiritual Lei lines with added magnetic power from the mountain, Obs is also a haven for natural healers and the Observatory, after which the suburb is named, offers celestial adventures of a more scientific kind.

Don’t miss the monthly Holistic Fair at the Community Centre, which draws finely tuned beings from far and wide. A morning in the village gave our visitors plenty to satisfy mind, body and soul: from Africana and esoterica at Obz late-night bookshop, healing crystals from the Crystal Wizard and cafe latte at Mimi’s, a trendy sidewalk coffee shop – a la Francaise. In addition to a taste of Observatory’s past – a microcosm of South African politics – a walk along the green banks of the Liesbeeck River showed our guests the rambling conference centre, Coornhoop, where my German ancestor, Jacob Cloete, was granted land in 1657, and which was owned by a grandchild of my in-laws’ enigmatic slave ancestor, Armosyn, in the 1700s.

 

Twenty-four (hours) and so much more to explore. This time it’s just five of us, including a six-foot blonde living in Dubai whose Nordic looks I have seen drive Istanbul men – and her – to do unpredictable things. Because it’s our local, we decide on warm, gesellige Ganesh, a chic shack where matchbox-tile wallpaper is complemented by Buddhist and Frida Kahlo icons and the chargrilled lamb chops, crayfish samoosas and Xhosa gnush are the main attractions. Unless, of course, you’re six foot and blonde, in which case you are likely to take centre stage, – as our blonde did, when she was delivered with a jar of beer and an uninterpretable snippet of romantic poetry from a red-eyed kaftan-clad patron.

“Think I’ve got to come back home,” she said, a tad more philosophical than she was after slapping a pursuer with her backpack over a decade ago in Turkey. “It’s good for the ego; I haven’t been picked up in 15 years.”

Time for brighter lights. Despite the residency of perpetual and new students, Obs is not all brown bread and sandals. Obz Café, with its tall bar stools, counters and window-on-the-world euro appeal is pretty chic and regularly holds exhibitions and poetry evenings by local artists. Barmooda, on the corner of Station Road, is all ritz, as is Babbo’s, a new cocktail bar with a Manhattan vibe and where everything, from cocktails to metrosexual meetings, moves fast – for Cape Town, that is. Just don’t order sherry – they only do umbrella-garnished stuff here, and at a price.

Which is why we landed up at Scrumpy Jack, with its lime green walls, non-stop TV sport and Munich Fest-sized beer mugs. Sadly, we didn’t have time to give our visitors a taste of all the eurafricasian pleasures of Lower Main, but can vouch for each and every one of them.

From die-hard Pancho’s Mexican eatery to Sushi Zone, live music at the Armchair Theatre and bikers’ paradise at 58 on Lower Main to metaphysical treats at Door in the Floor and organic food at Komati Foods, Obs has its finger firmly on the alternative pulse.

(Published in Sawubona, November 2006, copyright Sharon Marshall)