Chapter Seven
Vacation in the Metropolis
The boat that Chantel and Beren travelled on, being a recreational vessel, was automatically directed towards the tourist district of Cape Town. All metropolis zones were situated upon the coastline to enable ease of accessibility for shipments from manufacturing zones. Cape Town and Sydney, sharing similar latitudinal coordinates, fortunately had temperate climates conducive to holiday-makers flocking there for the sunshine and surf. Other metropolis zones were not so naturally blessed with an abundance of beaches and had more limited recreational opportunities. It was nightfall by the time the boat arrived at Cape Town and Chantel could only discern the city as a silhouette, a montage of shadows lurking in the light of the moon.
As the boat docked in the harbour amidst a sea of gigantic cruise ships, Chantel and Beren took in the view of a city that was strikingly similar to their own but on the other side of the world. Neon signs winked at them from atop the summits of various skyscrapers. The earth’s horizon was again obstructed with a never-ending landscape of multi-level towers. Human-made structures conquered Chantel’s view of a skyline that for the past 12 days had barely been interrupted by a protruding wave. Just as Chantel had previously amazed in wonderment at how the great expanse of the ocean remained so pristine and untouched, upon alighting upon land, she was conversely in awe at how humanity had created such incredible structures all amassing together in a gigantic, pulsating organism. Upon stepping onto shore she felt comforted again. Not only because the past day on the boat had been spent in the haze of a hangover in which she would have given anything to be on firm ground, but also because the expanse of the metropolis provided a distraction from the nothingness she had been staring at out on the sea. Her eyes were more receptive to the shimmering of the lights that flickered from the distant buildings than to the moonbeams glinting off the water. Surrounded by the buzz of the big city, she felt at ease again.
They entered Cape Town without any administrative issues. Chantel was astonished. Even when she travelled home to her parents’ place in the agricultural zone just north of Sydney she had to undergo the process of obtaining the appropriate visa for the visit, getting approval from all the relevant ministries and digging out her documentation and verification files. There were some instances when she even had to check in to the registry office in the agricultural zone from to time to time while on vacation at her parents’ place. Given the extensive bureaucratic process involved in her jaunts to the agricultural zone, she expected a similar amount of rigour to be enforced on her journey across to the other side of the world. Although she was pleasantly surprised with the absence of bureaucratic process, she also pondered why this was so.
It was with great difficulty that she tried to keep up with Beren as he rolled off the boat ramp. No matter which way she arranged them, she felt that trying to juggle two large suitcases was like balancing two eggs on a spoon. Even when she activated the remote control devices on the suitcases and used the joystick to direct where the suitcases rolled they would end up in a tumbled heap. Beren was predictably oblivious to her predicament and continued talking to her without the slightest concern as they disembarked.
“Chantel, we were so lucky we did not get caught up in a storm. Out on the high seas the weather can get pretty wretched and once the wind hits the water, what’s a little boat like the one we were in going to do? We would be washed away for sure or even tipped overboard or eaten by a whale,” Beren chattered on.
“We made it thankfully but that was just the easy bit. Now we have to work out how to travel north.”
A lack of response from Chantel did not perturb Beren.
“Now where do you think we should stay tonight? I don’t want to be too close to the beach. Of course, I would like to be on the beach but I can’t go on the beach so no point trying to find somewhere too close to the beach but I would like to at least have a view of the beach. Oh, how I miss the water!”
Beren paused for a moment in reverie of the times when he used to swim in the ocean. This at least gave Chantel the opportunity to get the suitcases in order and catch up to him. They wandered onto the main tourist strip and starting scoping out the different hotels. Accommodation options were not a problem in the tourist district. Bordering upon the white sand of the beach were rows of hotel towers, all flanking the ocean like a battalion of guards standing at sentinel. Each hotel was part of a global conglomerate. Positioned assertively for every potential customer to take note of was a sign detailing the hotel’s affiliation to its respective global five parent company. Depending upon the corporation, hotel patrons could get discounts off the rack rates, extra accommodation options like breakfast and dinner included or any other number of perks. The hotels were all arranged in clusters depending upon their relevant associations. Chantel noticed that in Cape Town, and she imagined in the whole of the south-western quadrant, Utopia had a greater presence. Each of the various global five companies had their own spheres of influence. Pangaea was clearly more prevalent in the central and south-eastern quadrants. Being the most populous region on the globe, retaining influence in these areas secured Pangaea’s control of the global parliament. The south-western quadrant, it seemed, was Utopia’s domain.
The dominance of Utopia was not the only observation Chantel made about Cape Town. The people here were also different. They were not purebloods. That was obvious. But they were not like the people in Sydney either. The skin of people in Cape Town was darker; the jawline more pronounced. Chantel also noticed that while most people in Sydney had straight hair, the hair of people in Cape Town was significantly curlier. Regardless, the differences were hardly significant and essentially there was still uniformity in the appearance of people across the south-western and south-eastern quadrants. She wondered what the world must have been like with people being divided into regions, segregated into divisions based on colour. She could not imagine a world such as the one Beren had described, in which a person’s life was dictated by the colour of their skin. Despite the slight difference in shade between the skin colour of people in Sydney and those in Cape Town, the colour of one’s skin hardly allowed for such a basis of discrimination. For such an attribute to form the basis of a person’s destiny was a bizarre notion, considering that in Chantel’s world there was no such thing as race.
Chantel and Beren wandered along until they finally found a Pangaea hotel on the outskirts of the main tourist district. A fibreglass replica of the Pangaea dinosaur beamed down at them from atop a gaudily lit sign. They hesitated to enter. However, at that stage of the night Chantel’s arms had grown weary from battling with the suitcases and as the night grew longer, the more drunkards there were prowling the streets. The hotel was the best and practically only option for Pangaea affiliates. They checked into the hotel and went straight to their rooms. Chantel had never been so appreciative of a shower and a bed. That night, being the first night in 12 days spent in a sleep without movement, she dreamt eerily of the sea. Although she was so deep in slumber that she was beyond consciousness, she felt that she had been transposed onto the boat, bouncing to and fro on the waves. The darkness of the sea beckoned to her even as she lay safe and sound wrapped up in her cocoon of comfortable quilts and freshly washed linen in the Pangaea hotel. The enigma of the sea was still lurking on the outskirts of her mind, tempting her with the unknown expanse of the wilderness.
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Chantel awoke the next morning foggy and disorientated. She peeked out from underneath her eyelids and saw the standardised décor expected of a contemporary living space – the window shades drawn against the harsh early morning sun, the placid pale brown colour of the walls enclosing in on a restricted space – and wondered where she might be. In a flood of realisation, the purpose of her mission suddenly invaded her consciousness. The glitch showing the purebloods, Beren’s crazy thirst for adventure and the last 12 days spent incessantly swaying on a renewable energy powered
vessel. She opened the window blinds and looked out over the expanse of beach stretching endlessly along the ocean. Even at this time of the morning the sand was flooded with holiday-makers and sun-bakers, all trying to squeeze in as much sunshine as possible before the sun’s rays became too strong, taking on the force of laser beams and scalding all those who were not appropriately protected with excessive SPF levels. She regretted not having taken advantage of the early morning sun when she was in such a convenient proximity to the coast, but hoped that Beren was not so eager to continue his adventure that there would be at least one other opportunity for beach action. As her mind turned to Beren she pondered over her good fortune that he had not yet bothered her given the hour of the morning and she that had been given an opportunity to awake gracefully from sleep. Just as she was thanking her lucky stars, there came a pounding at the door.
“Rise and shine, Chantel,” Beren’s voice penetrated the emptiness of the bare hotel room like water flooding into a gorge. “It’s time for us to start moving again. We need to start lining up our next boat ride. We have work to do remember. This is no vacation now.”
Chantel’s hopes of spending some time lapping in the coolness of the ocean instantly evaporated. She remembered again how painful it could be travelling with Beren.
“Beren, it’s barely even 6.30 in the morning,” she called back. “Surely we don’t need to start moving yet. We know the people we need to ask. We just need to give them a call, tee up a time, name a price and voila – all done, without needing to get up at some ridiculously early time in the morning!”
They had asked the crew of the vessel from Sydney for referrals to a similar boating company that would take them to London metropolis. The crew had given them the name of such a company that chartered small vessels for recreational passengers. They had learned that most boats between Cape Town and London travelled along the shore to the north western quadrant, stopping at one or two ports along the way. According to the maps they had available, the port town of Lagos would be the closest to their final destination. The plan was to find a boat that would take them here and while stopping over at port, Chantel and Beren would sneak off the boat and find transportation by land that would take them to Freetown. The plan sounded simple enough in their heads.
“How much longer do you need for your precious beauty sleep, Chantel princess?” Beren asked snidely.
“Give me two hours,” Chantel responded, in part just to get Beren off her back.
“Okay, I’ll call these Saharan shipping dudes and see if they can meet us in two hours,” Beren said, in a unilateral exercise of executive decision-making.
“Whatever,” Chantel grumbled back in acquiescence.
Two hours later Chantel and Beren found themselves on the harbour dodging newly arrived tourists, porters, touters and other random personnel.
“Let me see, she said she would be on wharf 5, next to the Conquer-All cruise ship. The biggest boat in the port apparently,” Beren mused.
“We’re catching a ride on the biggest boat from this port?” Chantel inquired optimistically.
“Not our boat. The boat it’s next to is the biggest boat you’ve ever seen I was told, which would be that one over there.”
Beren pointed to a monstrosity of a vessel. Taking pride of place in the centre of the port was parked a cruise ship as big as a building and towering almost as high as some of the hotels on the coastline. Billboard sized video screens beamed down at the mere humans on the wharf, enticing them with bigger-than-life displays of patrons dancing, singing, swimming, running, sleeping, eating, doing everything one could ever want to do on board the Conquer-All. ‘The Conquer-All caters for all activities, has something to suit everyone, is your home away from home that you won’t want to leave,’ the videos screens screamed. Chantel wondered how a mountain of that size managed to move through the water and without realising it, was careless enough to wonder this aloud.
“With infinitesimal slowness!” was Beren’s curt rebuttal to her self-addressed question. “Why, if we had ridden on board one of those things, we would barely even have left Sydney by now. It’s much more fun to go on one of these babies!”
As Beren and Chantel rounded the obese circumference of the Conquer-All, they were greeted with the sight of the sailboat that would transport them, if it could make the distance, to the port of Lagos. Compared to the Conquer-All, the Saharan sailboat was tiny. Barely more than a rowboat with a sail perched from a crudely fashioned mast, the Saharan certainly did not embody the confidence of its neighbouring cruise ship. Even in the gentle waves of the port, the Saharan was like a clumsy polar bear, mimicking the way the extinct being used to slip and slide over ice. The slight frame of the boat made Chantel quiver with apprehension. Numerous dents battered along the bottom of the hull belied the boat’s previous altercations with rocks and other structures. The boat’s mast seemed to imbalance the vessel even more, as it fumbled on the low tide of the water. Chantel wondered how she would manage to stave off seasickness on a boat that looked like it would be thrown around like a kitten’s toy.
“G’day, she’s a beauty isn’t she?” a husky voice asked, penetrating Chantel’s thoughts.
Chantel looked up. The perpetrator was a slight, slim-waisted woman with short grey hair and a vicious tan.
“I see you’ve already been introduced to the Saharan,” the woman asserted. “Julie is my name.”
She proffered her hand for the obligatory shake.
“You must be Beren and Chantel,” Julie rambled on. “Beren told me to watch out for the rollers, haha!”
Chantel stared quizzically back and offered her hand in return.
“Uh, yes. I’m Chantel, Chantel Wild. So you are Julie…” Chantel trailed off, expecting more information from Julie or at least a surname to complete the introduction.
“Captain Julie, if you prefer…or just Captain for short. I’m easy either way. Nice to meet you Chantel. Likewise Beren, Beren Gnarly is it? Yes, that’s right we spoke on the phone. Well, what are we standing here on the shore for? Why don’t I get you on board for the grand tour, ay?”
Captain Julie marched off towards the Saharan, leaving Chantel and Beren to stare dumbfounded at each other in her wake and with no choice but to follow her on board.
“Now I know what you’re thinking,” Julie rabbited on. “It’s a bit small, maybe a tiny bit pokey. Can it handle the high seas? Well, let me tell you that contrary to first impressions, this Titanic model CU28 is no piece of junk. You name the place and this contraption can take you there. It is fully equipped with the latest state-of-the-art technology, from the automatically calibrating GPS system to the intuitive sail system that repositions itself depending on wind pressure. That’s right, this baby can practically sail itself to London. You don’t need any other hands on deck with such a dependable fully automated steering system. Okay, so it’s no Conquer-All or even no Titanic B03C, but the Saharan is sturdy alright and reliable on the open water. There ain’t no berg gonna bust this hull, that’s for sure.”
They completed the very short, very sweet tour of the vessel, replete with Julie’s wild gesticulations and animated facial expressions.
“Uh, Julie,” Beren began.
“Captain Julie, you mean,” corrected Captain Julie.
“Sure, Captain Julie. We’ve just spent a very long journey trying to suppress our dinners from disappearing back into the ocean. This next leg of the journey is going to be just as painful as the first. I’m not so sure that we can handle another round of playing puke-a-boo with the fishes.”
“Oh, you don’t need to worry about that,” Julie reassured Beren. “This boat has an automatic sensor stabilising system as well to quell the roughest waves.”
Beren looked at Chantel and shrugged his shoulders.
“Well, what other option do we have?” he reasoned. “Can we leave tomorrow morning?”
Chantel fumed. ‘So much for consultation,’ she thought. ‘
When Beren was on a mission, he meant it.’ The next leg of the journey on board the Saharan was decided.