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« Return to South Africa

My grandmother’s house is permanently freezing, as if it has refused to allow the sun to come in and play carpet bowls. Nothing has changed in the past few years, but then nothing in the house has changed in the past few decades. Save perhaps the glint in my grandmother’s icy blue eyes. I picked up the car, my brother’s old Golf, and drove through some old neighborhoods. Driving on the left side of the road came quick, give or take the odd game of suburban chicken. The streets seemed a little worse for wear than I remembered, the trees greener and thicker along the roads. My Jewish neighborhood is now very much China Town - it even says so in the tourist books. Bruma Lake, the struggling artificial lakeside development built down the road from my old house, is now Asia Town. “Chinese on the one side, Indian on the other,” says my grandmother, far from overjoyed. This is a lot of change for an 80-year old. Gated communities is a lot of change for me. Whole suburbs have been cordoned off with high gates, so that you can only drive in from one entrance, guarded by a guard and a boom. Bad enough that every house, and I mean every house has high walls and/or electric fences, now the streets are gated too. The South African advertising industry have created a new demographic - the walled-in suburbanite. In Johannesburg, security is key and fear rides shotgun. We did not see any crime during our stay. We heard one unfortunate story, in which a visitor from Australia had her cell phone stolen. Says my Joburg friend Wayne, genuinely pissed off. “She’s going to go back to Australia and everyone who hears what happened will perpetuate this myth that Jo’burg is violent and dangerous. It’s just not like that anymore. Only in people’s heads.” My grandmother’s driveway is long and dark, and the electric gates take eternity to open and close, when they decide to do so. Every night I came home fully expecting a car to pull behind me with four guys determined to stick a gun to my head. It never happened, but the fear was as real as a shark fin on the beach. This fear seemed especially prominent in older folk, lamenting the ever decreasing standards of their lives. I was however surprised when my most multicultural friend freaked out when three black guys approached him one night on a darkened suburban street. Nothing happened. But the threat of something happening is just as bad. Spike this drink with electric fences and the amount of firearms in circulation, and Jo’burg lives up to its unfortunate reputation. Which is a pity, because its time to create a new one.

My trip coincided with a wedding, which followed the script of weddings everywhere: A debauched bachelor party, (in which the groom Bradley found himself crowd surfing a packed dancefloor dressed in a skin tight Superman costume), a beautiful ceremony filled with food and dancing. The first of what will be four weddings this year, and if I previously deluded myself that we are not growing up, I could not ignore the pictures that made me look like someone, dare I say it, in their thirties. People had come from around the world for the wedding, including Brad and Tamar, who had arrived from New York just a few days before their wedding. Others made the trip from London, Israel, many from Australia. You’d have to travel a very long way to find a country with a more agreeable year-round climate than Johannesburg, which explains why so many people from Jo’burg live in Australia. Some tables consisted entirely of ex-South Africans, relishing the cola tonics and lemonades that seem uniquely South African. Along with Monkey Gland sauce (a type of BBQ sauce that contains neither monkeys nor glands), Big Korn Bites, All Gold, Just Juice and of course, Biltong. Such is the appeal of our raw, dried, salted meat that my brother succumbed to his first taste of red meat in over seven years. For my part, a day hardly went by in which I didn’t treat myself to an old favourite, be it a Tempo chocolate bar, nougat or Sparletta Cream Soda “it’s so smooth.” Wine was outstanding and ridiculously cheap, and every meal surpassed expectations. Even Steers, the hamburger chain, delivered on the holy memory of Sunday night burgers. Condiments reign supreme in South Africa. Steers offer BBQ, Thousand Island and Peri-Peri sauce as their staple dips - tomato sauce is too boring to contemplate. However when ketchup is used, it is basted in such quantity you can drink it. In North America, they lightly paint the bread red and call it ketchup.

At midnight, most of the older folks left and a DJ spun progressive house, which I realize is now stuck in our memories as the soundtrack to a special time of our lives - our rave party years. It’s not that fashionable anymore, but like Neil Diamond, it will always appeal to a certain demographic recapturing their lost youth. Wedding favours consisted of “I Love NY” T-shirts and novelty glasses, adding just the right touch of silliness to the night. I disappeared with the groom’s first cousin for a while, fulfilling a tradition of sorts by matching a pollholder to a bridesmaid. The whole experience left me enchanted and not as cynical about weddings as I might have thought.

We shopped at the markets, where curios were fantastically affordable. In South Africa, most of the goods on offer are considered kitsch at best. In Canada, they are exotic. I bought a beaded elephant, a painted ostrich egg, some clay masks, African canvasses, wind chimes and a portrait of Hunter S Thompson, which is now staring at me through green pilot sunglasses, a questioningly creased forehead and a purple cigarette holder to the lips. If I had bought it in Joberg, everyone would know that I got it from the artist at Rosebank Flea Market. In Canada, it is truly an original. Clothes were not as exotic as I had hoped, nor as affordable. It is unfortunate to travel to South Africa and find people chasing after the same overpriced brands that fleece people in North America. Fortunately, nothing beats a pair of original strapped leather Bio Tribe sandals, and I did manage to find some garments whose price betrayed their cool factor. I figured that, on average, prices had increased four times since I left the country, seven years, ago. Beers that cost R2 were now R10. A burger and chips was R10, and now R35. The cost of living has mirrored an increase in salary, and as usual, there were a disproportionate number of luxury cars on the roads. The upmarket Sandton area has the highest number of BMW’s than any other district in the world. Strange in a city of 3.2 million of which 37% are unemployed. 91% of whom are Black, and live in Soweto.

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