Exhausting Cape Town

A compact city nestled in the bowl of Table Mountain, Cape Town is steeped in history, surrounded by natural beauty, and offers a kaleidoscope of experiences.

Known as the Mother City, Cape Town was the first permanent European settlement in South Africa, established in 1652 to replenish the Dutch East India Company’s Spice Route ships, whose sailors risked life and limb in dangerous seas at the prospect of fame, riches, and a little black pepper. Once past the Cape of Good Hope, returning sailors could stop off at the Castle for supplies and a little reverie. Set in the centre of town, the Castle still stands today with its thick stone walls and a moat designed to keep out the unknown and the undesirable. In 1659 the first recorded wine was produced in Constantia, and became sought after by the likes of Napoleon and Frederick the Great. Today wine farms still grace the sloping hills around Cape Town and the surrounding areas like Stellenbosch and Franschhoek with neat rows of vines set dramatically against the mountains where they can be cooled by the drifting sea air.

The Cape’s rugged, natural beauty speaks to its position on the southern tip of Africa – with jagged mountain peaks and sheer cliff faces that fall into the sea in red, rocky knuckles that persist in a longstanding battle against the elements, fighting erosion for as long as possible. The wind can play havoc all year round, the winter westerly bringing driving rains and the gusting summer southeaster, also known as the Cape Doctor, blows some of the freshest, cleanest air in the world to its first stop on land since leaving Antarctica. Autumn brings relief to the summertime heat, and Springtime is even more gentle, bringing lovely flowers like the white Arum Lily that grows freely all around, the Protea – South Africa’s national flower – and the triumph of all, the West Coast’s colourful wild flowers that burst like confetti once a year from the dusty, arid ground in vibrant shades of red, purple, orange, white and yellow.

Perfectly suited to a driving tour, it’s possible to whiz through the city and its surrounds in a day but a week would be more realistic if you want to do more than skim the surface. You can start by visiting the city centre, where historic Victorian buildings stand as a reminder of its European heritage, framed by the modern-day chaos of Africa. Take a walk down busy Loop Street, buzzing with energy as street hawkers sell goods on the corners to the smorgasbord of overseas visitors, each looking for the perfect souvenir, maybe a carved elephant, or perhaps a tribal mask, before returning to their 5-star hotels like the Mount Nelson where they can enjoy afternoon tea on the shaded veranda in true Colonial style. Sprinkled amongst the slow-moving crowds are the locals, weaving their way through at a faster pace, perhaps quickly popping out of their offices to run an errand or grab a bite to eat before taking the lift back up to their skyscraper offices where they’ll conduct business on the line with clients in America or the head office in the UK.

Dodging through the traffic-laden streets, full of mini-bus taxis and fearless pedestrians, you can jump in your car and make your way out of the city centre’s hustle-and-bustle. Within 10-minutes you can be standing at the mountain look-out on the ridge near Lion’s Head, or at the base of Table Mountain where you can take the cable car to the top for a panoramic view over the city, the harbour, and Camps Bay, just south of the city. Famous for its beautiful white sand beaches and popular among visiting Europeans, Camp’s Bay offers a natural shelter from the summer winds and views framed by the dramatic ridges of the Twelve Apostles, part of the Table Mountain range. The Main Road through town is a fashionable affair, where you can stop off for a bite to eat or enjoy a cocktail while taking in the view of both the place and the people.

Carrying on farther south, the winding road hugs the shoreline on your right and the mountains on your left, traversing the peninsula past Llandudno and its boulder-strewn beaches towards Hout Bay, a working fishing harbour where if you’re lucky you’ll find fresh snoek or yellowtail just off the boat. If you’re in the mood for a treat, stop off at one of the local fish shops for fresh calamari and chips you can enjoy at the water’s edge while taking in the view. Frequent cruises leave the harbour taking you just outside the sheltered zone where the waters run deep near Duiker Island, home to thousands of seals and a sometimes-pantry to the Great White Sharks who patrol this zone. Farther along, the Sentinal peak juts upwards abruptly over the sea, casting its shadow on a surf spot called Dungeons where enormous waves break a few times a year. Only visited by the sea’s most respectful and worthy pilgrims, the place feels sacred and heavy.

Back in your car, carry on along Chapman’s Peak – a magic drive where the mountains glow red and deep burnt browns in the sunset hour. Carved into the mountain-side a hundred years past, the road is an engineering feat just barely clinging to the steep sides of the near vertical cliffs it passes through, allowing your eyes a scene reserved for the lucky and for most, only once in a life time. Following the path of the road you’ll see Noordhoek with its farmyard charm and where you can kick your shoes off and take a walk along its six-kilometer long beach, so big it never feels crowded.

Jutting out on a peninsula, you can see the Slangkop lighthouse in Kommetjie. Drive up the hillside and enjoy a sundowner and another panoramic view – if you stay long enough you might be paid a visit by the Chacma Baboons who live on the mountainside and frequently drop in to town looking to grab a quick snack from an unsuspecting household or road-side picnickers. Potato chips are a favourite item, so keep an eye out for the sneaky thieves!

Driving on, more treasures await – Cape Point at the tip of the peninsula, Simon’s Town and its resident penguins, views across False Bay, gentle waves at Muizenberg – perfect for learning to surf – and across the Cape Flats towards the vineyards of Stellenbosch, Franschhoek, Paarl and Wellington where you can sample the regional wines, fruits and cheese before returning to town, exhausted and full of memories.

So I'm officially a Kleine Zalze Ambassador... what have I done?

So I’ve recently been selected as a Kleine Zalze Wine Estate Ambassador and I’m wondering, what’s in store for me? As part of the programme, I’ve committed to demonstrating my joie de vivre, enriching my adventures with complimentary wines and celebrating with compelling stories for all to read on this blog. My goodness, I’ve got that morning after feeling and I’m wondering – what have I gotten myself into? Will I feel compelled to fill my writing with superlatives, platitudes and gushing about how fabulous life is? Will I truth tell for better or worse, boring or otherwise? Perhaps the other Ambassadors will be far more interesting than me and I’ll somehow get voted off this avatar-island we’ve all so suddenly populated. Ok, I tell myself - calm down. A shipment of lovely wine is coming my way, and we’ll soon be informed of the first Ambassador Challenge. How bad can it be? I love wine. I love trying new wine. I love trying wines I like again and again. I remind myself of the prize – a weekend of the Good Life on the Kleine Zalze Estate, and the opportunity to share my musings with other wine enthusiasts. Ok, I think. I might just be ready. Let the adventure begin!

The Day I Realized I'm not a Zen Master

My first day back to work in 2010 started off pleasantly enough. I work as an Account Director in an advertising agency, and the entire industry had shut down over the festive season. After a good ten days on leave, I felt pretty relaxed and carefree. I had spent time with friends, travelled, thought about ‘life’ and read a little about philosophy and Buddhism. Now it seemed like things were a lot simpler than I had thought before. I wondered why I had ever felt stressed about the “little things” in the first place, “Boy,” I thought, “that was silly. This year will be much better.” Maybe I was becoming a Zen Master – things would just roll off me now.

It was my client’s first day back on the job too, and she was still in the leisurely pace of things. She sent me the first email of the year wishing me only the best with “compliments of the season.” Unfortunately this was not to last. We corresponded throughout the day about a particular project that had suddenly become “extremely urgent” (as so many things do in the advertising industry), and within a span of four hours she was busy throwing a telephonic tantrum, angrily shouting her frustration and making unreasonable demands in my ear.

Having fallen out of the swing of things in the “work world” during my fabulous leave, my guard was down. As my temple started to throb I wondered where all that happy vacation-vibe had gone to. Is it possible that all that goodwill towards mankind I had acquired while frolicking in the great universe of “what should we do today?” could just disappear – like it had been suddenly flushed down the corporate toilet?

Struggling to retain my carefree mindset, I wondered what it is about going on leave that puts us into such a state of “who we really are,” and why we can’t we stay that person all the time? Why should one part of me live Mon thru Friday during the day shift and the rest of me, the “real” me, live afterhours and on weekends? The truth is, the office is full of forced social interaction that requires you to be on your best behaviour all the time. Think about it – how many times have you been pleasant to someone you really can’t stand, or laughed at the boss’s jokes even though they weren’t really funny? The best corporate successes are masters of disguise and suffer the worst cases of Personality Constipation.

Maybe this explains the split personalities people develop in the workplace – you might have experienced the “email” personality? Usually this is an unlikeable personality that expresses herself with lots of bold words and exclamation points, and contrasts the “in person” personality which is usually much more pleasant and soft spoken. Outside the workplace multiple personalities are considered unnatural and psychological prescriptions applied, but at work – well, it’s pretty normal.

I wondered if everyone in the Corporate World was experiencing a day like mine the effect that might have on the global psyche. Imagine the impact of millions of cranky, frustrated employees all around the world shouting and throwing tantrums all day long. Wouldn’t it be better if we could all just go back to our “real” selves, spend time doing the things that really make us happy, and think about Life some more?

My temple still throbbing, I went home that evening and self-medicated with a glass of wine. I was surprised at how much the whole experience had affected me. I didn’t know the answers to my questions about why the workplace is the way it is, but I had made two realizations. First, the holiday was over – I had been unpleasantly and irrevocably thrust into 2010, and second, I knew without a doubt that I was not a Zen master.

Unpolished Eland's Bay

The wind was picking up from breezy to howling. I had been sitting on the beach, enjoying a pleasant moment alone and view of the beach from under my gazebo until it nearly blew away. With one super gust it started to flex and I jumped up to put it away before it could break. It seemed to take forever to fold the frame down and I tried to stay focused even with the flapping of the cover in my face and the wind pulling in all the wrong directions. I must have been quite an entertaining sight to passersby, dealing with all of this on my own, but to my amazement they seemed not to notice me and my flapping gazebo at all, like I was invisible. I finally managed to get the thing down and packed it away to safety, and even though I was covered in dust and sand, and had somehow lodged a thorn in my foot, I couldn’t help feeling a little triumphant.

I turned back to the view of the beach, littered with piles of dried kelp, empty mussel shells and the odd crayfish tail. The sun was setting behind the mountain, a misty haze filtered the air and a set of perfect waves were peeling down the line – one of the best left-breaks around. I was in Eland’s Bay on the West Coast of South Africa, an out of the way place with a subdued charm that would be easy to dismiss at first glance.

A rough-and-tumble town, Eland’s Bay makes no effort to cover up its soul as a true fishing village. The Crayfish Factory at the Point is the center of activity for a salty bunch of fishermen who wear standard-issue green overalls and operate weathered row boats out to sea, the same kind you find being used as decorative lawn ornaments all over the West Coast’s more touristy neighborhoods, placed like maybe they had washed up in that spot a hundred years ago never to be disturbed again.

Church Street holds most of the town – a hotel with a restaurant and bar, and a few small shops where you can buy basic essentials noted on the sign-board outside, like “braai hout” (firewood), “vleis” (meat), “melk” (milk) and “brood” (bread). You can get by with English but if you really want to connect with the locals you’d better brush up on your Afrikaans.

We had planned to camp at the local caravan park, located right at the beach. But with a growing gale-force wind and the sense that I was being exfoliated away by the airborne sand, we needed a back-up plan. We decided to enquire about accommodation and by a stroke of luck there was a cancellation! I wondered if the weather forecast had anything to do with it? The sense of relief was pure joy as we went from feeling stranded outside in a dust-bowl to jubilation.

We stayed in a cabin, more of a Wendy-house on stilts. It was tiny and looked to be built with the love, sweat and tears of the owner himself, nail-by-painstaking-nail. The place had no-frills yet everything you need for a perfect weekend away – a view of the sea framed by the Babbejaan Mountains (“Baboon Mountains”) to the left and Verlorenvlei (the “Lost Marsh”) on the right, one of the largest natural wetlands along the West Coast*, where sunrise breaks through the morning fog to reflect pink, yellow and orange. The peaceful quiet is broken only by the occasional passing of a freight train that runs through the center of town on its way north towards Namibia.

The beach in front our bungalow was a perfect launching point for our kayak, with a few channels of calm-water opening up between the waves. We readied the kayak and our fishing gear, hoping to come back with some of the West Coast’s famed sea-fare, and waited for an ideal moment when the water was at it most approachable. When it was time we took off, paddling hard and fast to get through the arriving set of waves. The walls of water came rising towards us lifting the kayak higher and we crested each one of them but only just in time. Not in the mood for a swim, we kept up the pace and paddled hard with deep full pulls in unison until we reached the backline. After a quick celebration and a few breaths we dropped our fishing line and trolled around, visiting the surfers in the water who were waiting for the next set, and then watching them take off with hoots and laughter. It was nice to experience Eland’s from this vantage point and share in the excitement of the moment.

We paddled back towards the Crayfish Factory and two fishermen in a row boat, about to go off on a mission. They were friendly and chatted with us about our fishing efforts, telling us about some magic spot 5-miles away where we could “definitely” catch the crayfish we were dreaming about. We said maybe next time, it seemed a bit far and they laughed as they began their paddle away.

Back on land we decided to go for a walk up in the hills where you can visit a Bushman Cave, just south of the Point on the “wild side” that’s unsheltered by the bay. You reach the cave after only a few minutes uphill from the road and its opening forms a perfect arch that looks out towards the sea. Inside, the walls are filled with 5,000-year-old** traditional rock art including paintings of antelope like the Eland, sheep, fish and silhouettes of people. The most incredible paintings though, are the hundreds of red handprints, all over the wall, seeming to reach out towards you from another age.

The beach below the cave is a gathering place for what seems like hundreds of seagulls, cormorants and other types of birds. We walked towards them and caused quite a stir, with crowds of them squawking and taking flight as we approached. No matter what direction we took a new path opened up and I imagined, in a mischievous kind of way if Moses might have felt like this crossing the Red Sea. When we finally made our way to the water’s edge I understood what all the fuss was about – a storm had brought up a big swell the week before and with it thousands of mussels had washed onto the beach, still alive and fresh from the sea. The birds were gathering the mussels, flying high in the air and dropping them on the rocks below, breaking them open for easier eating. Some of the shells were as big as my palm, the biggest I’d ever seen – and we immediately took our opportunity to gather a few treats for ourselves.

Happy and sun-burnt we returned to our little bungalow on the beach, grilled the mussels on a hot fire, enjoyed a glass of cool champagne and watched the sun set. A seafood lunch and an amazing view, it was the perfect finish to a West Coast getaway.

*http://www.environment.gov.za/enviro-info/sote/nsoer/resource/wetland/verlorenvlei.htm
**http://www.kalaharipeoples.net/article.php?i=119&c=11

Kayaking Cape Point

The alarm clock went off before sunrise, startling me from a half-sleep. All night I’d been falling into excited dreams about my day to come – a kayaking journey along the southern Cape Peninsula, all the way to the Point. Steeped in the history of sea exploration, trade and the havoc of its infamous storms, Cape Point’s powerful presence had pulled me away from any kind of restful sleep.

I contemplated turning over for just a few more minutes of sleep, but then remembered the weather forecast – a perfect window early in the morning. The swell would be small and the wind very light, but conditions would deteriorate throughout the day. Since the point is known for fickle weather conditions I decided the snooze wasn’t worth it after all, and stumbled out to the kitchen to get the coffee going.

The car was loaded just as the first morning light appeared, the sky turning purple. Driving towards the launching point at Buffelsbai via Simonstown the road followed the course of the mountains on the right and the sea on to the left, a winding cliff-side road overlooking False Bay. The sun began to rise, an orange globe reflecting across the quiet, kelp-strewn water and warming the rounded boulders lining the beach. The calmness of the scene belied the feeling of anticipation getting heavier inside me.

Finally arriving at Buffelsbai, I saw a bunch of fishing groups in motorized boats going out in the same direction as we were planning. Lots of excited banter circulated as one group of men after another slipped into the water – cheers and jeers, sizing up our craft – a basic 2-person sit-on-top kayak, and tall tales of some faraway reef that held the promise of catching the “big one.” I assured them we would not be joining them on the reef this time.

Our turn to launch, we set off and got into the rhythm of our paddling, making our way under our own steam. Birds in formation glided nearby, low, just skimming the water’s surface. I looked down as we moved over the water – it was clear and the kelp seemed to be reaching eerily towards me with greenish-brown arms from another world. As we got into deeper water my heartbeat picked up its pace and we rehearsed our no-frills safety plan, just in case we were paid a visit by a sea monster.

The plan had three parts. First, if the sea monster knocks the boat and you fall off, get back in. Second, if you are nibbled by the sea monster and lose a limb, get to shore. Third, remember the National Sea Rescue phone number and dial it when necessary. My dreamy state of mind instilled by the peaceful paddling and amazing scenery was now feeling clouded by worry. I wished we hadn’t brought up the subject.

We continued on passed Rooikrans (“red cliffs”), a famous spot where anglers risk their own sort of danger by hiking down a near vertical drop for the chance to catch a Yellowtail or other predator fish from the rocky cliff-face that dips into deep ocean. The rock is thick and has stood the test of time and the worst of storms. Passing fishermen along the shore we seemed to cause a bit of consternation and excitement, and we waved to one another and passed happy conversation.

Around the corner we found a sea cave cut by the wind so deep we dared not explore too far. The sound of the waves echoed inside and surged back out again like the place was alive and breathing.

Continuing on I could see the Point ahead and the international weather station above at the top of the mountain. Both my heart rate and the height of the swell increased, rising and dropping like a see-saw. I felt like I was entering a zone where I probably shouldn’t be. The colour of the sea was changing to a dark, deep purple and as we moved closer to our destination we passed over a lake of sea foam churned up by the crashing waves on the rocks. I could see the reef the fishermen had mentioned off in the distance and there were lots of boats sharing the action – but their presence was no comfort to me now.

The swell was so high now I felt like I was on some kind of a rodeo ride, bucking me hard and threatening to throw me but there was no way I was getting off at this stop! I took care to keep the balance, gripped my paddle, breathed deep and in this chaos tried to relax and enjoy the view of Cape Point’s rocky finger, battered yet still reaching out to the southern seas, framed by the Benguela current on the western side and the Agulhas on the eastern side. I was astonished to realize I was sitting in the place of their convergence and the height of their colliding energy. The moment felt heavy and there was an ancient presence all around me. I saw the faces of the great spirits looking down from the ridges above. Now I knew with absolute surety that I was not supposed to be here, but here I was anyway, stealing a timeless moment and seeming to get away with it!

We stayed just long enough to document the moment with a photograph, an amazing view of the lighthouse from our fragile spot floating on top of the depths of the sea. Then we began the paddle back towards False Bay where the friendlier Agulhas flows. We left as quickly as we could, taking care not to be caught and toppled by a rouge wave. We reached the zone of sea foam where the swell height seemed more manageable and I began to breathe a little easier. As we moved along the swell height continued to fall, along with my heart rate, and the grip on my paddle eased back to normal. Now in calm water the rhythm of the paddle strokes formed a quiet aftermath and I could not stop smiling at the amazing gift I had just experienced.

Writing a Ticket to Freedom

So one day I decided to become a writer. I haven’t started yet, but it sounds like a good plan – I can make my own hours, work wherever I like, and spend time with the people I love. Over and above the positives, the decision was also spurred out of exasperation – the realization that I’ve been working in a not-so-glamorous desk job, where the effort-to-fulfillment ratio is no longer working in my favour.

So what made me think I could do this? You see, I have a history of this kind of behaviour, of making a decision and then diving in wholeheartedly. If I had a motto it would have to be “do it or bust”. About to graduate high school, I decided to go to a private university. When my parents couldn’t afford the tuition, I landed a scholarship and studied abroad in South Africa for six months. After university, I decided to move to California – it sounded nice and sunny. I had no job, no contacts, and just enough money. I took a road trip and when I got there I decided to stay. I needed a job so I decided to work in Advertising – I had been thinking about it since attending a presentation about it at a Career Fair. It sounded interesting so I got out the Yellowpages and called every listing until I landed my first job. After seven years I decided to move back to South Africa, I missed its natural beauty and the raw feeling of being on the edge of the world. It was calling my name.

So after living in South Africa for four years I’ve found myself looking at my path here and feeling a little disappointed at my achievements. Before the move to SA I was full of romanticism about my new beginning. I would travel, see new things, meet new people, focus on life – not work. I guess all the freedom was just a little overwhelming because at some point I crossed the line back into familiar territory – work, work, work. The trouble with being a good worker though, is that it doesn’t just take eight hours a day – it takes almost all of them. You can’t be a good worker unless you’re passionate, and you can’t be passionate if you’re waiting for 16:59 on the clock to start packing up to go start your day. The worst of all, you can’t think about beautiful things when your mind has been cluttered with appointments, politics and the boardroom shenanigans of the Corporate Empire.

So I’ve decided that by becoming a writer I can focus on being the person I want to be, and have time to think, to dream of lovely life. Time to actually have the experiences I dream about – traveling into the unknown to the Transkei, up the West Coast, to the Karoo, the Overberg, Mozambique, Namibia and beyond – and most of all, the small nondescript towns in between that no one ever talks about but which leave you with a true feeling of a place, its gritty history and the people who have built it through generations of time.

I’ll explore all these places through meeting the locals, eating new foods and through rough-and-tumble camping. I’ll focus on other activities at home, too – I’ll finally learn to surf and overcome my hesitation to dive in the freezing Atlantic – I’ll catch my first crayfish. I’ll kayak the ocean and small, mellow lagoons. I’ll climb mountains and learn how to take beautiful photography. I’ll teach myself the art of cooking and pastry making. I’ll become a better mountain biker – no more falling on the downs because I’ve squeezed my brakes in a panic! I will no longer be afraid of baboons in close proximity. I’ll sample fine local wines, braai with friends and listen to the ocean through open air on the night breeze.

Being a writer sounds just great. I just have one question I’ll need to answer before I can begin. – I wonder, “What I should write about?”

Handbag Mania

For people in the know there’s a code phrase in Manhattan’s China Town, “Gucci, Prada, Coach.” Whispered on the streets, these three little words act like a magic spell that transforms the neighbourhood into a Handbag Heaven. Chinese women, like pied pipers, lead streams of bewitched shoppers into secret locations found in various places, some through navigating the basements of buildings, some hidden as closets at the back-end of storefronts, and sometimes even in the backs of a vans. In broken English, the women rush shoppers inside these dark rooms, the doors locked shut and finally, after a moment the lights are switched on to reveal walls filled with designer handbags – some fake, some real – at an affordable $35+ price (approx. R300). It seems like such a good deal that after just one experience you might be hooked. On a recent trip to New York my best friend transformed before my eyes into a once-off fake bag “dealer,” buying multiple bags to fill orders for friends around the country.

Under normal circumstances any modern woman would tell you it would be risky to follow strangers into unknown locations and unthinkable to pile into the back of a van. No rational person would willingly be locked inside a dark room in a place unknown to them, especially not in dodgy China Town. The risk seems higher when you consider that most of the shoppers are tourists on holiday in New York and do not know the general environment well. Nonetheless the prospect of scoring a designer handbag – even a counterfeit one – seems to wash all these worries away. The experience brings an undeniable rush of adrenalin to fashion lovers, afterall you’re getting an amazing bag at the fraction of the price – you’re getting away with it!

Sometimes known as “Counterfeit Alley,” Manhattan’s China Town has had an on-again / off-again love affair with the faux-bag industry. In 2004, 17 men were arrested in a sting operation when smugglers offered to pay $1-million to undercover agents posing as corrupt customs officials in an effort to ensure clearance to shipments of containers full of knock-off bags manufactured in China. The trade seemed to retreat for a while and the level of secrecy about it increased but lately business has picked up and to anyone looking, it’s not too hard to see what’s going on. Perhaps the levels of vigilance were relaxed too much – just this month the NYC Police Department launched a crack-down campaign after a long undercover investigation, seizing $1-million worth of counterfeit handbags and watches, and closing down 30 business stalls. In part, these legal actions have undoubtedly been propelled through pressure from the legitimate designer industry which is an important tax-paying stakeholder to cities around the globe, and which has a lot at risk if their interests are not protected. Louis Vuitton handbags are among the most popular fakes in the world, and the company has put significant funding and legal support in place to aggressively protect its interests. In 2004 the company had already employed a 60-person dedicated anti-counterfeiting team and achieved 1,000 arrests. Currently the team is still hard at work unfortunately demonstrating the persistence of the problem. Even under this level of scrutiny the trade has never been eliminated, perhaps due to the enormous demand among consumers.

In the US, selling counterfeit handbags is illegal, but buying isn’t. Research shows that even the wealthy, who are just as likely to buy the genuine article, purchase these goods. The phenomenon is so great that ladies who live in some of America’s nicest neighbourhoods push Avon and Tupperware aside in favour of hosting a Purse Party in their homes. These facts are worrying to the luxury design-houses since they suggest that counterfeit goods now have the potential to steal real market share and do greater damage than previously thought.

Beyond the impact on sales, industry advocates propose that there is some evidence that the counterfeit handbag business – just like other industries in the underground economy – supports other illegal activity and causes negative social effects, like human rights abuses within the manufacturing sector against child labourers and the proliferation of unsafe working conditions. It has also been identified as a funding mechanism for crime rings and even terrorism. Others argue against the design industry however, and propose that the prices for legitimate goods are inflated far beyond their fair value especially in places like South Africa where the price for goods can easily be in the thousands of Rands, making the a legitimate items far outside the reach for most.

The debate around these fake bags covers complex and wide-ranging issues and certainly leaves us with a lot to think about. Some will be motivated to purchase a fake bag because it’s inspired by high fashion but is available at an affordable price. Others will look at the decision not-to-buy as a way to do something positive for the world. Whichever way you look at it, only one thing is certain – the counterfeit handbag industry is tenacious and doesn’t seem to be going anywhere soon, so we’ll have plenty of time to consider whether or not to “fake it.”