Hopeful of some space to spread out on the Sydney-Johannesburg flight I found myself next to a Shona mother and her university student daughter who, along with their father and sister in business class and other sister in the opposite aisle (and not too happy about it), were heading home to Zim for a grandmother’s funeral. The mother, a nurse working in Townsville for ten-day straight stints before driving home to her husband, a Qantas engineer in Brisbane, bitterly described her compatriots as ‘stupid people’. Given the state of Zim in the past 21 years I couldn’t really disagree. The daughters, all successfully studying at various universities in Melbourne, embodied the immigrant story — hard working parents sacrificing for the next generation. I offered to swap with the disgruntled daughter, achieving a seat between myself and a woman at the window who immediately apologised that she had taken pills to knock herself out for the flight and would only wake to eat. I was feeling pretty content with myself until I discovered the audio jack in my new seat did not work. First world problems? Eventually angling it in a particular manner I was connected but on this, the third long haul flight in a month, the second in less than a week, I found little of interest to view. Sleep pretty much evading me — it was still early afternoon after all, I managed to doze as we approached Africa. Before I knew it the fourteen hour flight descended as dusk drew daylight from ‘the city built on gold’.
In the top fifty cities for size and one of the most dangerous in the world, I have always been just a little cautious navigating Joburg. After putting my money belt on I worked my way through customs and found a booth to purchase the Gautrain card. The world cup had brought Johannesburg into the 21st century (or the 20th at least — something Melbourne is yet to achieve) — with the Gautrain — an airport link named from its province — Gauteng. The card was loaded with a return trip, easy. I then purchased an MTN sim card with enough data for my journey (just — in one week and largely using wifi I managed to use all the data…have since learnt to turn off all my apps) and found the station. The train departed and I gazed over the suburbs as my phone rang. Sasha, on her own round-the -world discovery tour, was calling from California. Born in South Africa the timing was ethereal. I had just been thinking of her and her family.
Sandton station was my disembarking point. Too late I realised the lifts were there for a purpose — the endless escalators were a challenge with my 2 cases and small back pack. Atypical for me (tend to want to stick to the rules) I had disregarded Peregrine’s (the tour company for my Namibia safari) guidelines to keep luggage to a minimum. Unlike most of the others on the tour, I presumed, I was travelling for 6 months, I couldn’t really be expected to have just a backpack. Friends reassured me that going by tours they’d been on I would not be alone in my avant guard rebelliousness. Eventually emerging at street level I asked a guy where the pick up point was only to be sent to the drop off point — more escalators. Finally I found myself in Forgette’s car along with eighteen year old Savannah, and soon to be forty Jackie, down from Harare for Forgette’s recent graduation. Setting off for Linden, we were soon drinking wine, G&Ts, and eating sadza ne nyama ne muriwo. Laughter, stories, the two sisters gently and lovingly bickering as close sisters do. It was quite a wondrous and unexpected beginning to the African instalment of my journey and hard to comprehend that I had first met these confident African women when they were a mere 11 and 13 years old, 25 years ago.
A slow Saturday morning , sunny and hot, grocery shopping and, remembering Forgette’s less than enthusiastic relationship to cooking, I decided to plan the menu for at least a few meals. A lazy afternoon of netflix, dinner of roasted lamb cutlets, veggies and good red wine, the jet lag not too horrendous. I had decided to be a bit of a tourist this visit. My two pervious stints in Joburg were fly-in fly-out trips. The first was to stay with Cathy and Gordon — a Irish/SA Indian couple and their gorgeous three daughters who had taken me under their wing when I’d arrived in Zim as a development worker. I was en route to Madagascar and the timing was perfect. SA had held it’s first free and fair elections after decades of apartheid. Old and young alike patiently standing for days, in endless snake like lines, had exercised their human right for self determination. The ANC, unsurprisingly, had won and I was whisked away to an ANC party. I thought it a good omen for the healing of the country that the gathering of whites, coloured, Indian and blacks were all celebrating this historic moment in harmony, the rainbow coloured nation. My second visit to Joburg was 6 years ago. A brief stop over to see Forgette after 15 years and meet hSAvannah for the first time. I recall feeling a little uncertain on a solo neighbourhood daytime stroll. Was it the bad press, a warning from Forgette, or just that every home housed a vicious dog that, unseen, attacked the gate as I walked by?
Forgette, aware of my desire to be a tourist, looked at Soweto tours, and, scoffing at the price, she took me instead. Maybe for someone who’s never been in Africa, never been to a township, maybe then it might feel worthwhile to spend $150 but the actual house, simple with a few times of interest, passing by the outside of Bishop Tutu’s home, hmmm paying that much — not for me. It was a Sunday morning, as the weather was grey and cool, there were few people out so the atmosphere was subdued. We sat at a bar, sipping a G&T and entertained by a local band.
I have a daily budget for this trip, with as many things as possible pre paid and financial commitments back at home allocated for. Sadly in my four days back in Melbourne I blew the budget to kingdom come — new hiking boots were needed (thanks for the tip Myriam — my Ecco boots are bliss), a new camera lens — in all my time in Africa the longest sense I had was 70mm so the new 18–270mm, feels like an extravagance, but if not now, when? Meds for 6 months a necessity, kindle replaced (the old one died on my first day in Tallahassee). Oh well. I have quickly come to see these expense as investments. My passions in life — being in nature, taking photos, walking and writing. I have six months to emerge myself in these, and six weeks in the investment is already paying off.
Three time zones in a week had taken their toll and my thoughts of making the trek to Pretoria or touring the Cradle of Mankind were dismissed — I was too exhausted. Next time. Instead I walked — as I do. But only for 1–2 hours. Delta Park felt safe with people walking dogs, bike riding, some workman, and a species of Ibis (I think) with a peculiar hark that punctuated the suburban peace. Views of the CBD, hills carpeted with a hint of jacaranda through light smog, a rushing creek (a storm had passed through a few weeks earlier destroying homes and flooding parts), it was great to stretch, use my muscles in dry African heat. A recycling centre was housed in the park, bins overflowing and waste scattered with the wind….interesting choice. A sensory garden, some lakes, a bird sanctuary with horses…a white woman running at me searching for a golden retriever — Codie…pointing her in the direction I’d seen him wander. An african guy was running two dogs (how is that for out-sourcing — the owner sending his ‘boy’ to run the dogs…. really?). He insisted the two dogs were with him, she was unbelieving. I was just a little confused, you’d think she’d know her own dog. Having abruptly dismissing me she eventually returned to explain, a dog sitter had lost the dog and she was helping to retrieve the retriever! The guy and I raised eyebrows, it wasn’t looking good for the dog sitter! Making the ascent back I huffed and I puffed, in awe that Savannah and a friend ran this 5 km route on Saturdays, the homeward stretch was a killer.
Walking or cycling the Joburg neighbourhoods awoke my love of Africa. I only attempted to cycle once…..Joburg is hilly…I had not cycled for 15 years and nearly died… it’s more accurate to say I took the bike for a walk. From the colour of the soil (milk chocolate in Linden), streets lined with Jacaranda trees in October bloom, dry heat, afternoon clouds billowing and building to grey, the slow roll of thunder, electric lightening and sudden drenchings leading to refreshing nights. A familiarity was seeping into my veins.
Savannah was studying for her final exams so I cooked — the leftovers make for easy lunches — feta and beetroot salad with an imitation harissa paste, beef stir fry, chicken kebabs with fresh pineapple, and a lemon delight cake. Each evening we sat in the courtyard drinking wine or G&Ts and talked. That’s one of my other passions as anyone who knows me can tell you! Savannah took breaks to sit and hear our stories — the early days when Jackie and Forgette caught the chicken bus to Marondera if I couldn’t collect them, to spend a week of the school holidays, using Sarah and my bikes and making more friends in a week than I did in 2 years; the days in Harare when a visit to my place was an excuse to dress up — an outing from their strong stern mother who kept them on the tightest of leashes; movies and ‘fast food’ — a luxury in Zim at the time; other development workers — Forgette has the most incredible memory for names recalling first and last names of people I could barely picture. I was 30 when Forgette was 11. We sat and marvelled at the phases of our friendship, from the ‘aunty’ and child to now, a 36 and 54 year old talking and sharing as equals. We laughed, shared sorrows, felt fury as we talked about past flames or fiends, loves ad losses.
Forgette was stunning as an eleven year old, an impish smile, delicate nose, elegant cheek bones and perfect skin. I remember the first day in Zim when she and Jackie walked me to the local grocery store, the guys at the servo ogling her and my silent reflection “I’m glad I’m not her mum for the years ahead”. Like most of us, life has thrown its fair share of challenges her way. At 36 Forgette remains stunning, elegant, delicate only in her endless empathy, and a profoundly strong woman. Her daughter, Savannah, at 18 is already centred and clear. We laughed and rejoiced at how much Savannah loves her body, her African bottom, and her bemoaning when it reduces for any reason. For Forgette’s chattiness, Savannah observes, talks when she is needed to and says what is needed. They are a team, respectful and kind to each other. It was gold to be part of the team for just a week. Can’t wait till we can meet again.
