It took us over twenty four hours to get here, and that is not counting the drive time from St.Louis to Chicago to get to the airport. That decision is on us. They have a perfectly good airport in St. Louis, but we thought it would be fun to spend a few days with our youngest child pre-trip. That is until we found out she and her husband would be in Switzerland. Oops. Then the airlines changed our flight twice and…and…. Enough of that. We are here. We are tired, but we are here.
Our hotel is quite lovely. It is also situated near the airport and far from things to do in Johannesburg. I am a bit worried about distance and transport. But after doing some searching, I figure out that not only is Uber available; it is safe, reliable and inexpensive. I call a driver. His name is Blessing. I love that. I ask him to say his name in Khosa. It is beautiful, but I can’t make the lovely little clicking sounds so Blessing it is.
I ask Blessing to take us to Rosebank where we will take a Big Red Bus tour of Johannesburg, aka Joburg, aka Jozi. It is the best way to ease into a vast new city when we haven’t slept, we don’t know the city, and we haven’t really figured out transport systems or currency yet. A bus tour allows us to take it all in while insulating us from decisions and interactions until we are more alert and equipped.
Just as wisdom turns onto the main thoroughfare near our hotel, I notice a fire burning along the roadway. There is a cooking pot covered by a small tarp propped up on sticks. A man stands and with a snap of his wrist strangles a chicken. What in the world? I turn in my seat. Surely I didn’t see that. Yep, the man has a firm grasp on a now dead chicken. I can’t speak. While my grandmothers used to talk about strangling chickens, I have never seen it done. I certainly wasn’t expecting to see it along the freeway. Wisdom eyes me in the rear view mirror and chuckles.
He explains that the man is likely making lunch and will sell the cooked chicken to the factory workers who will come from across the street. “You will see this informal economy everywhere”, he says. “Besides, you are South Africa. We like meat. Everywhere meat. Real meat is red meat. Chicken is only salad. It does not count.” I laugh and say we have only been in the country for a few hours but we noticed a lot of KFC advertisements. Wisdom is indignant, “KFC is for women. Men need red meat.” Okay guy. Calm down, Colonel Sanders and I come in peace.
It is not my first trip to Africa, but I am nonetheless still startled by the poverty and informal housing along the roadside. The inequalities can be jarring no matter how many times I see it. I watch my husband’s face, but he seems to be taking it in stride. We travel through suburbs and middle class walled enclaves until we reach Rosebank. I love Africa. All of it.
We wave Wisdom goodbye and I realize that the tip I gave him (a usual amount for me at home) was more than the actual fare. He texts me a heartfelt thank you. I am happy that he is happy and also happy with the reasonable fare. We will Uber a lot over the next month.
At the Big Red Bus ticket counter (which took a minute to find tucked away in a mall), the staff are smiling and happy. I think South Africans are some of the most pleasant people on the planet. Like the Irish, they have known hardship and want. But somehow it manifests in humor and song and joy. I have to stop myself from buying everything they suggest. I want to ….just because they are so happy about it all. We opt for the standard city tour. We also buy the bottled water. Hey, it is warm out.
It is a beautiful day to sit outside on the top of a bus and tour the city. We have no idea at the start that it will take hours or that we need sunscreen. We have no expectations. The African music piped through the headset sets the mood. I feel myself dancing in my seat. I can’t help myself. I love the tight harmonies and the rhythm. My husband just smiles, he is more than used to my antics. The German tourists across the aisle….not so much.
The bus rolls through Rosebank and the gated community of Melrose Arch. Plenty of people get off here. The recorded message touts the area as “safe” behind the gates. I see sterile. It is a lovely area with coffee shops and stores that could exist anywhere. It is a plastic place that appeals to some in the same way cosmetic surgery appeals to some. Not me. I want the rawness of Africa. I want to see and talk with regular Africans. I don’t need lifestyles of the rich and famous. I want to experience things that I can’t see and do at home. If the places are older, unkempt, and a bit past their prime, I am good with that. Truthfully, so am I. Needless to say we take a pass on visiting Melrose Arch.
The bus rolls on through Houghton Estate. We see the Mandela Center and also the houses where he lived after separation from Winnie and then with Graca Michelle until his death. We follow winding roads past expensive private schools and scenic overlooks. People sit on the terraced hillside in small wine bars.
As the bus turns toward downtown, I am reminded that this city began as a mine. The gold ripped from the earth here made men rich and it also enabled a system of oppression that crippled the country. Colonialism is writ large in every statue and abandoned mining relic. There are drills and mine trains and hoists and giant trucks everywhere. Sometimes they are preserved as history, at other times as art. South Africa has learned not to run from the past. They understand that healing must come from remembrance. Reconciliation cannot happen without acknowledgement.
Downtown in the central business district the traffic picks up. We skirt a notoriously abandoned district where criminals hole up at night in the shells of derelict buildings. There is hope that Jozi will revitalize these spaces instead of expanding ever outward. But for now, we are warned to keep our distance.
The commercial downtown area is bustling with people. Africans in colorful dress pop in and out of shops. There are markets of fruits and vegetables and endless stores selling anything and everything a person could want. People wave in greeting as the bus passes. Here I am addressed as mother or auntie out of respect. I wave back, happy to be a member of this teeming African family.
We cross the railway tracks and head out of downtown towards land left dormant over abandoned mine pits. We are headed to Gold Reef City where theme parks, casinos, and hotels incorporate the actual abandoned mine shafts and administrative buildings into an “entertainment” zone. The unused spaces become tourist attractions. The complex is opulent and unexpected.
Across the street, the Apartheid museum sits in austere dignity. Like Jozi, Gold Reef City has excess and reminders of deprivation. Riches and sorrow. The road keeps going and we go with it. Jozi reminds me that. Time marches on. We can’t go back, but we can remember.
Graffiti is everywhere. I see a wall painted with Call Your Mother. Others feature Mandela…always Mandela. Mother and Mandela, both sources of love and pride in South Africa.
I am on a bus under a beautiful sky in South Africa. There is joy and introspection. Jozi has come a long, long way since apartheid. There is farther still to go. This mother’s heart wishes them well. Somewhere, I hope Wisdom is sitting down for dinner with his Mother (I secretly hope it is chicken). I hope he is telling her about the crazy lady he met who was shocked by a chicken, danced with abandon, and gave him an unexpected tip. I am in Africa and Jozi has already worked its spell on me.
