Soul therapy in the city of gold

Soul therapy in the city of gold

If there’s one city that truly pulsates with life, it’s Joburg. The energy here is electrifying, propelling everything forward at a dizzying pace. Even after decades away, I find myself drawn back to my birthplace, where I bear witness to both prosperity and decay, encounter moments of stunning beauty and incredible kindness, and immerse myself in an intoxicating elixir that revitalizes the soul. And you know what? Before we dive into this journey together, I have something exciting for you to explore: a guide to the best malls in Johannesburg.

Imagine this: the front man flips through the air, and then the four of us grab red beer crates to create a catchy beat on the scorching pavement, all tap-tap-tapping and fancy footwork. We scatter among the cars, searching for any indication that someone might toss a few coins our way for our pantsula performance. It’s a stark contrast to those guys in Cape Town who drop down to their knees and beg you with pleading eyes, don’t you think? This is Johannesburg. And let me tell you, Joburgers know how to make things happen.

Let me tell you a story about my business trip to Jozi. You see, Jozi isn’t a place for relaxation by the pool with a cocktail in hand. It’s a place where people get things done. They come here to do business, to be a part of the industry, and to engage with the local community who are both friendly and eager, but also busy and always on the move.

And that’s where I find myself now, a working tourist, observing the vibrant energy of sub-Saharan Africa from the intersection of Jan Smuts and Bompas.

Hey there! Can you believe it’s been over thirty years since I hopped in my trusty Mazda 323 and hit the road to Cape Town? I was on the hunt for a brand new life, and little did I know that along the way, I would also be learning how to drive. Let me tell you, it was quite the adventure!

When I first found myself cruising down the N1, I have to admit, I was a tad overwhelmed. Twelve lanes of traffic, massive trucks thundering by, and cars darting in and out like they were on some crazy roller coaster. But you know what? I quickly remembered the skills I had learned and before I knew it, I was weaving through traffic like a pro. It was like a rush of adrenaline, navigating through a city where every minute counts. You either seize the opportunity or get stuck in the slow lane. And let me tell you, when that traffic light turns orange, you better hit the gas pedal and zoom ahead. Time waits for no one!

The roads are like the city’s veins. I am the current that flows through Alberton to Brooklyn, Centurion to Roodepoort, Kempton Park to Bedfordview, Boksburg to Benoni. I maneuver through downtown Joburg, swerving around potholes and feeling relieved that I opted for the super waiver. In Joburg, there’s an abundance of ways to reach your desired destination. Enter the same address on Google and it will come up with a different route, every single time. It’s mind-boggling, isn’t it?

When we settled in Berea, just a few blocks away from the newly finished Ponte, the Hillbrow tower stood tall as the highest structure in the southern hemisphere. The sight of steel-framed windows and red brick architecture stirs up memories of those mid-century high-rise apartment buildings that were once considered the pinnacle of modern design.

As I look back on my youth in Hillbrow, Braamfontein, Parktown, Melville, Brixton, and Fordsburg, I see a city that is ever-changing. Joburg is like a fresh sheet of paper, where the present constantly erases the past. When I drive through the streets that used to be so familiar, I find myself in a landscape that is both familiar and unfamiliar at the same time. It’s like flipping through the pages of a forgotten book.

Today, I find myself driving through the neglected streets of Bez Valley. The last remaining Victorian houses stand as a reminder of the past, with their intricate broekielace neatly ripped away. These houses were once part of the Doornfontein Farm, and now they line the road. But amidst the broken lace, I stumble upon a park. This park was generously given to the nation by the Bezuidenhouts in 1949, with one condition: their family graveyard must be maintained. Yet, as I look at the broken headstones and the worn-out metal lettering, I can’t help but wonder about the cost of prosperity.

Joburg serves as a constant reminder that wealth and success don’t always guarantee a lasting legacy. And perhaps that’s the way it should be. Maybe decay can serve as a form of social justice, reminding us that true prosperity is only meaningful when it is shared by all. Joburg may be a city of change, but it’s also a city that carries the weight of its past with it. And as I drive through its streets, I can’t help but feel a connection to the lost girl I used to be, forever entwined in this ever-evolving city.

As I drive through the city without any recognizable landmarks, I prefer to keep the radio off and rely on Google Maps. This way, I have the opportunity to reflect and connect with my surroundings. There is a mix of emotions as I witness the infinite expanse of the metropolis. It leaves me in awe but also brings moments of delight. Especially now, during the spring season, certain streets adorned with jacaranda trees create an extraordinary sight. Their branches intertwine with each other, forming a beautiful archway above and covering the sidewalks in a sea of purple.

The sky above resembles a scene from a painting, with fluffy white clouds glued onto a powder blue background. It may seem kitschy, almost like a religious artwork. As I continue my journey, I am captivated by the rolling sound of thunder and the delicate scent of rain falling on the hot pavement. The steam rises, creating a mist-like effect. Driving past the worn-out areas of Johannesburg on the M1 highway, there is a thrill that accompanies me as I barrel under the long concrete tunnels. And then, I zoom forward, leaving the lower parts of the city behind and ascending higher. I pass through the Parks, catching a glimpse of the grand mansions once owned by the Randlords. Finally, while overlooking Westcliff, I see an urban forest that extends as far as my eyes can reach.

The Mesmerizing Blend of Beauty and Kindness

When I visit the Centre of Memory in Houghton, I go down to the basement of the Mandela Foundation. There, I see rows and rows of notebooks that belonged to Madiba. It’s amazing to think that all his writings are carefully preserved in this archive. As I walk through the exhibition room upstairs, I see photographs and personal items that belonged to him. One item that catches my eye is the jackal skin kaross he wore to court on August 16, 1962. That was the day he was taken into custody for leaving the country without permission and encouraging a strike.

Standing in his old office, which remains untouched since his last day of work, I am overwhelmed with emotion. It’s almost enough to bring tears to my eyes. Mandela was a true example of someone who never stopped working, even after his days on this earth were over. He taught us that work is a never-ending journey, and we should strive to leave a lasting impact.

As I stood on the rooftop of Hallmark House that night, surrounded by casually dressed young people enjoying their hookah pipes, I attempted to capture the mesmerizing beauty of Johannesburg’s famous skyline in a single photograph. Unfortunately, my efforts were in vain. Undeterred, I ventured out the following evening and drove along William Nicol Drive just as the sun was setting. The city appeared to be bathed in a delicate pink hue, with Sandton’s gleaming windows resembling shimmering rose-colored jewels. It was during this moment, when Mampintsha’s catchy song “Joburg” filled the air, that a feeling of love and admiration welled up within me.

Finally, it’s the last day. I’m so tired. There’s a thunderstorm in the afternoon. Huge puddles everywhere, and the sound of the water under my car is like an elephant peeing. I’m heading towards one of those toll road plazas on the city’s freeways. I choose the prepaid e-tag lane, hoping to breeze through. But the barrier doesn’t rise. Now there’s a line forming behind me. Panic sets in. I don’t have any cash. I’m stuck. All I want is a glass of wine! Suddenly, a man on the side of the road approaches. He’s dressed weirdly, but he’s smiling warmly. ‘Hey, don’t worry. Just give it another try, Mama,’ he says.

I do. Nothing. Shaking my head in sympathy, I can’t help but feel overwhelmed and frustrated as I watch the long line of cars ahead. It seems like the universe conspires against me, making me choose the slowest lane once again. I start to lose hope, on the verge of tears.

Then, a kind voice breaks through my self-pity. “Hey, don’t cry. I’m sorry,” the voice says. I look up to see a friendly face, the toll booth attendant, trying to console me. He reaches into his pockets, searching for something. “Let’s see what I got…”

Through my sniffles, I manage to ask, “Can I pay with a card?” His face lights up. “Of course you can!”

As I take back my card and the boom lifts, a wave of gratitude washes over me. How can I repay this act of kindness? I should have asked him what he was waiting for, or offered him a ride. In a bustling city like Johannesburg, there are so many ways to get to your destination. Sometimes, you just need more than a map.

My home, my people

“Do you prefer white or red?” asks the man behind the counter.

The rain outside is pouring down hard, as if it has a personal vendetta against me.

The man behind the counter looks tired but kind, like a dedicated doctor after a long shift.

“Are you in the mood for something heavy, like a cabernet? Or do you prefer something lighter?” he asks.

It’s been a long day for me, standing on my feet for at least five hours, smiling at strangers, and repeating the same sales pitch over and over again.

“Definitely something light,” I reply.

The man rummages through the bottles and places two of them on the counter. They are both unfamiliar to me.

“How about a pinot from Elgin, or this lovely light blend?” he suggests.

I find myself as one of only six customers in this cozy little wine bar named Mr. Pants. The atmosphere is warm and friendly, and the conversation flows effortlessly between strangers, just like at a well-hosted dinner party. At one point, a new person enters but quickly turns away. “What was that all about?” someone asks.

‘I want some tea,’ says Andile, sitting closest to the door. We all burst out laughing, creating a joyful chorus in this cozy room.

I grab my second glass. ‘Why does this taste so fruity?’ I ask, my face showing my confusion.

‘Ah, you prefer a wine that’s more earthy,’ he says, nodding knowingly.

‘Here, try this,’ he suggests, pouring a heavenly liquid into a fresh glass – a French Bordeaux he randomly discovered at a Portuguese store.

Transference: when you mistakenly interpret your therapist’s understanding of your character and needs as a form of affection.

When I’m in search of a tasty snack, I typically go for a plate of fresh white Spanish sardines with a dollop of tangy atchar. And to complement my meal, I like to try something new and exciting, so I usually ask the bartender to surprise me with a glass of their choice. And let me tell you, the Savage wine they recommended was a delightful surprise.

The first sip of the Savage wine reveals a lightness that dances on my taste buds, while also emanating a grounded and genuine essence. It’s like taking a bite of flinty elegance. The smoothness of the wine loosens my tongue, making it easier to engage in the flowing conversation happening all around me.

There’s something about this place that makes it the perfect spot to spend a Saturday evening. Maybe it’s the expansive collection of wines covering the walls, or perhaps it’s the lively atmosphere that fills the air. Whatever the reason, I can confidently say that this is the place to be in Joburg. It has a charm that’s hard to find anywhere else.

Man, I gotta tell ya, I just had the most mind-blowing drink ever. It was so good, it practically made my hair stand on end like I was some kinda rebel. And let me tell you, I couldn’t resist getting one more glass of that heavenly elixir before I left. It wasn’t until I got the bill that I realized those seemingly random codes written on each bottle, like the ‘155’ scribbled on the last one, were actually the prices per glass. But you know what? I didn’t give a darn. I just went home with a big ol’ smile on my face, feeling like I had found my people and recharged my soul. It was better than therapy, and a whole lot more fun.

Until we meet again, Joburg.

This fantastic article was originally featured in the August 2022 edition of MzansiBride.

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