Twelve For Six in Melville

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Johannesburg take... five?

Twenty-five percent of South Africa’s Police Force is illiterate and as luck would have it, one of them pulled us over with an over-inflated sense of importance.
“Can I see your license?” Derick pulls out his license.
“You cannot drive this truck, wrong license,” he says. Incensed, Derick took a deep breath and asked why. After all for over three years now, Drifters have issued him this license to drive their trucks without problems.
“Because sis truck is modified, it seyz that you cannot drive sis truck,” the spherical man says, rocking back on his heels and pointing to the back of the license.
“It says up to 16 tonnes. This is a max 13tonne truck, its been modified to 10.”
“You cannot drive this truck,” he insisted pointing to the trucks capacity which was on the inside of my door. Fed up, Derick was about to opt for a fine which he will later contest in court but sensing that he was wrong, the officer saved face by letting him go with a warning. How generous.

Apart from a literacy program, I think the police force might benefit from an exercise program as well or at least stop taking bribes in the form of chocolate bars.

There are three airports that I know like the back of my hand, Heathrow, Sydney International and Jo’burg International. I have been in and out of Johannesburg more times than London. Joburg is like a real life version of Sim City. Buildings are destroyed as quickly as they are constructed. The world sees Joburg as a violent mix of township gangs amongst the wealthy Afrikaners. The Lonely Planet Guide has been quoted as saying ‘If you are planning to go to Johannesburg make sure to stick all of your valuable possessions in every available orifice.’ Charming and a mite uncomfortable. It’s a reputation undeserved and more people I know have been mugged in London than in Johannesburg - bare in mind I do know more people who are living/was living/visited London.

On a green hill, 200 white crosses dotted the slope a sober reminder of the number of white farmers killed in the uprising. Was it that long ago, what was I doing, where was I? Where were you? Living in Australia, we are entirely sheltered from the reality of war and conflict. The lives lost in Bali were tragic but it did not happen in Australia. History here in South Africa and truly the rest of Africa is a lot more violent than our own. In some parts it still is, but here it is more poignant because it has not been that long since the end of Apartheid.

Albert and Anouk were dropped off in Pretoria outside the US Embassy to secure some visas for somewhere - Mozambique perhaps? It was nice to be back amongst functioning traffic lights and plumbing. To one side was the stately House of Parliament. “Who’s the guy on the horse?” Carl yelled.
“Jan Smuts,” Derick yelled back.
“Who?” I heard them whisper in the back.

If I can impart one ounce of wisdom and that is, pee before you drive through Joburg. The motorways have been widen to five lanes but that does not stop you grinding to a complete standstill every 5min. I will never ever complain about Sydney traffic again. Over 10million people commute between Pretoria and Joburg per day. That’s half our population! Once you are in traffic there is no getting out.

Finally we reached Beyers Naude Dr and it was the home stretch to Drifters Inn. Tony has left and instead Alec checked us in. Rouette was at an Indaba in Durban and left the newbie to captain the ship. Bethel came out to greet us and was not surprised to see me. I guess he saw the passenger list beforehand.
“How is Cynthia?” he asked.
“She’s pregnant!” Derick interrupted.
“What?”
“Yep, and to a black guy! Got married…” Derick fabricated. Bethel looked at me for confirmation and I did manage to keep a straight face, somehow.
“Shot gun wedding. She got knocked up and well there you go.”

I did a rough inventory of my belongings in my room. I had lost a shoe. Dammit! Last place spotted, in the truck when the pompous officer had trouble deciphering Derick’s license. Klepto was possibly pawning my shoe off for a Snickers bar. I had also lost my favourite t-shirt. Never mind, it was nice to have a warm shower with decent pressure and there will always be shopping.

Smelling of VO5, I was sitting in the bar waiting for the others and the taxi to head out to Melville for Happy Hour. “So he’s black?” Bethel asked.
“Yes,” I replied sipping my Savannah.
“Where is he from?”
“I don’t know, we don’t really keep in touch. I don’t know if he moved to Australia or if he was born there. It was all so sudden,” I lied.
“But is he black, like me, Pitch black?” he continued with the inquisition.
“Yes. Pitch black.”
“Really?”
“Yes. Pitch. Very pitch.”
“So she’s married?”
“Yes,” have we not covered this bit?
“Tell her I am disappointed. What is wrong with me? Couldn’t she marry me?”
“Not pitch enough,” I explained.

Hendrik left without saying goodbye that bugger. He just wanted to get to his backpackers for a rest and some internet. Why come to Joburg and rest? Melville is like Newtown - student and young professional vibe, eclectic mix of restaurants and bars, second hand book stores and fashion boutiques.

Things were in full swing in Six, its happy hour until seven. Meaning two for one cocktails. So what you say. Happy Hour begins at noon, stops at seven and occurs seven days a week. The best part though is the nifty practice of lining up your drinks five minutes to seven. Order six, get twelve and they will space it out all night for you. Genius. Absolute genius.

Our waitress directs us to some lounges where a young Joburger was sitting by himself waiting for a friend. He had no problem with us joining him. Introducing 22 year old Renoir, works in his dad’s advertising firm but is trained as a chef, is also gay. How did I know? He called me a hot mamma. No straight guy would ever call me that. Hot, sexy, mysterious, alluring are not words that you associate with me. Try hilarious, I get that quite often. With the amount of cocktails we ordered (doubled) it was not surprising that the waitress became confused and twice the amount of Long Island Tea was served much to the boys’ delight. Before long the boys were in need of cigarettes and Rands were poured onto the table to find the exact change for the machine.
“Sorry,” apologised Carl, indicating to his cigarette.
“What for?”
“I know you don’t like it,” he explained. True I didn’t, but I have a choice to walk away. Besides, this is Joburg and if I wanted a smoke free environment, I was not about to find one in Melville. People smoke in South Africa, it is that simple. Oh and not necessarily cigarettes. “I know you got a bit pissed off at us during the trip,” he went on.
“Sure, but it’s not like you didn’t offer help, I did say no to it. Besides, it’s a little thing,” I reasoned. He nodded. A couple of girls had joined us while Renoir, his late arriving friend, Derick and Harald had disappeared. “Your friend is so good looking!” one of them whispered to me. She was looking at Carl.
“Yes he is and he is single. Would you like to meet him? He’s my favourite Norwegian.” And so began the pimping of Carl & Alex. Not that it was difficult, the girl was willing to teach Carl a thing or two that made me blush a little. “I can’t stop staring at him, he’s just so good looking,” she whispered to me.
“He is so cute!” her friend said pointing to Harald who had returned a little red around the eyes. “Can you take a photo of him?” the friend asks handing me a camera phone.
“Sure,” I agreed taking the phone off a rather bullish blonde guy. “Just for you.”

Harald blanked out a bit in his own world and Derick had his head in his hands, cue to go. A questionable Taz with its engine running waited for us to say goodbye to Renoir and the girls (who didn’t manage to do the kinky things she wished she could do to Carl. The five of us should fit in, one can sit in the boot. “Ah, I am picking up my friend,” the taxi driver explained, pointing to a tall African standing by the Taz. Right, six of us then. The African curled himself into the hatch part of the hatchback and Derick took the front. Picking Alex and Harald at the cash machine, I let them all settle down next to Carl before stretching across the three of them. Speeding our way back to the inn, we hit a pot hole with an almighty thump and went slightly airborne.
“What was that? Did we hit a guy?” Alex joked.
“What?! We hit a guy?” Harald popped back for a moment into reality somewhat alarmed and turned around to look through the back window to discover an African sitting there. “What?! How did the guy get in the back? We hit a guy and he’s in the back?” Poor Harald was so confused.
“No, it was the taxi sign that made noise,” said the driver as he fumbled for his taxi light dangling outside the window,
“How does that work?” Derick asked.
“Magnets,” he said as he drew back in the sign and stuck it on the dash board. So there I was, last night as a group in a taxi driving with its sign on the dashboard, spread flat on my back across the laps of three Norwegians with a live body in the back.

Technically I had a return flight to Cape Town to catch this morning. Booked it in case I didn’t get to see all the things I wanted to see there. I didn’t get to see all that I wanted to see nor did I take the flight. Rouette was back from her Indaba early and she is one of those people that you can make time for because if she likes you, she’ll make time for you. Impulse decision, I decided to stay, it was too much hassle to catch my 10am flight and I am always reluctant to leave Joburg. Not surprisingly, I needed to do some shopping. “So she’s pregnant?”
“Yes,” I sighed at Bethel. “Up the duff, completely knocked up.”

I arrived back from shopping to only to end up back at Six for more cocktails. This time Derick and I came back at a respectable hour and in his car. Rouette was awake in her flat and cuddled up under a doona (it is winter) watching America’s Next Top Model. It was a nice evening. When you travel so much, absorbing culture, food, running away from wild animals and scrubbing your underwear in a sink under a dribbling tap, a bit of normalcy is welcomed.

The next afternoon was spent strolling around Cresta and then taking the dogs for a walk with Rouette in the gardens. About a year ago her German Shepard, Nandi died - technically poisoned by some cruel burglars. I was heart broken for her and for Nandi’s companion Shaka. Have you ever heard a dog howl for their mate? It truly is an awful sound. Now Niki, a skittish German shepherd runs around us while Shaka confidently bounds ahead. The last time I spoke to Rou was, well, the day that I left Drifters for Hoedspruit but that doesn’t matter. It is silly to think that you can keep in touch with everyone you meet when travelling but it is great to know that if you were in the same area again, the friendship feels like it never had a break.

It seems so ordinary that I am walking the dogs and then heading to the movies afterwards. It was like being home and I began wondering if I should be back. Find a permanent job, buy a place, get a dog and spend weekends second hand book shopping with Lisa, going to see brain-numbing movies with Dave and rolling my eyes at Cynthia’s next new craze. Rou took the back streets to the Rosebank cinemas and I continued to think about what I wanted now.
“Ach, I am so tired, ma tourists have worn me out,” Derick moaned from the back seat. ‘More like ya weed!’ I thought.

Next morning, Derick left for Pretoria but managed to say goodbye to me this time. “Well, its been great,” he said. We’re not one for soppy goodbyes. In fact I am not one for soppy goodbyes full stop. I never believe that it will be the last time I will see someone again. The sadness that comes with leaving always hits me later - usually on the plane in front of a hundred or so strangers.

I was minding my own business avoiding the arrogant Dutch man and writing. Well, trying to write, I was still pent up after the Dutch man was spewing out some claptrap about how racist Africans were. No matter where you go there will always be someone, some group or some town that is racist, violent, aggressive, oppressive and down right rude. Let’s not confine it to a country. He claims the Dutch rarely swear and any country that dares speaks that way is beneath contempt. Yes, but you wear ill fitting wooden shoes and you expect me to take you seriously?
“Meet Derick’s girlfriend,” Bethel said to Jude. I looked up, slightly confused. Jude grins and clasps my hand.
“I am so pleased, God has truly given you his hand,” Jude said before climbing back on the bar to fix the television. “What are you going on about?” I asked Bethel, but he just smiled innocently and left to grab lunch orders. Bastard, he’s getting back at me and Derick for lying about Cynthia’s pitch black African husband and love child.

Rou gave me a choc chip walnut muffin she had just baked after my lunch. I was sad to leave and although our goodbyes weren’t tearful, it was starting to overwhelm me again. I made a promise to come back as Jude placed my backpack in the empty transfer van. She didn’t collect any fee for the transfer, making it all the more difficult for me to leave. No one really drives into the city of Johannesburg unless they have to for work, the rest drive around it. Smog covers this global city as it toils away, contributing to 25%!o(MISSING)f the gross domestic product of the entire continent of Africa. There is a seedy undertone to the city but it is not the melodramatic cesspool of violence you are led to believe. If anything the parallel worlds of ruthless globalisation and the spreading shanty towns question how some can have so much and others so little. How so much progress is made on one side and so little on the other. Johannesburg captures in a comparatively small package what is happening to this world in terms of distribution of wealth. Where else can you stand on the corner with a man in rags reheating a withered cob of corn over a bin fire and then walk down the street to by a soy mochacino latte?

A year later and I am still yet to diversify my travel away from Africa. Somehow even when I write this with my giant soy latte two months later, I know I will be back to see them all again.

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Photos

State of Joburg Taxis
Derick with the taxi sign... on the inside travelling at 60miles

My Favourite Norwegians
Okay, they are the only Norwegians I know... (harald, carl & Alex)

Renoir & Me
No straight guy calls me a hot mamma..

Gone to Pot
Who's been at the weed? 'Not me, my eyes are still pearly white...'

Harald's World
'He is so cute' says the bulky blonde guy...

Six Again
I'll take this one, and this one, and heck this one...

Surprise
We're Surprise's best customers... and she knows it.

Derick & Me
Well its been great... Till next time.