From Alexandra to Sandton

 

Image: Gencraft

 

When we were planning our visit to Guy and Jen in Joburg I mentioned to him over the phone that I hoped we would be able to get an impression of what the grittier side of the city had to offer, and not to restrict ourselves to the middle-class areas.

“I’ll bear it in mind, Daddyo. But you will see that one can’t go anywhere in Joburg without encountering what I think you mean by the grittier side of life. In fact, you can’t go anywhere in South Africa without crashing into it. Even in Pearly Beach. When did you last go over the hill to Eluxolweni and check out living conditions there? Or take a drive through Blom Park? Or Masekane? Or try going to the Post Office on SASsA day?”

“Alright, alright. I speak as a country bumpkin, largely ignorant of what is going on in the real world. I have full confidence in your judgement, and whatever you have in store for us will be an exciting adventure.”

Nevertheless, I don’t think he would have taken us to Alexandra had I not expressed my interest in seeing how the other 90 percent live. It was on Day 4, after we had been to Liliesleaf Farm, that he took us through the infamous township. He probably assessed the risk of being robbed or hijacked as low, seeing that it was midday on a Monday, and we were driving in Jen’s unpretentious little Kia Picanto.

We kept to the main drag, which had its fair share of potholes, and was called Far East Bank Street. Why it is called Far East Bank Street I have as yet not been able to fathom, and I feel sure not many residents of Alex refer to it by that name. It was slow going and we were able to gawk at the passing scenery and pick out some random details in a jam-packed picture. Everywhere we looked we saw the signs of a struggling informal economy set in the chaotic squalor of an African township.

 

 

 

 

 

“As you can see, the refuse collectors are on strike.”

“I bet the rats are loving it and growing fat.”

“And multiplying at a furious rate. I read somewhere that there is a direct corelation between food intake and libido.”

“Makes sense. Who feels like sex when you are starving hungry? But, then again, it doesn’t seem to deter the malnourished masses all over the world from breeding like rabbits on Viagra. Eight billion, for God’s sake!”

“That’s what happens when you issue an injunction to go forth and multiply without setting a limit.”

 

 

“Like rats, people are resilient. Everywhere you look they are trying to make a buck in order to survive. There might be no jobs, but the township economy somehow keeps going.”

The buildings dwindled and we emerged onto London Road and made our way to James and Ethel Gray Park for home-made sandwiches and a walk before returning to Linden.

I have often heard about the contrast between Alexandra and Sandton, which lie side by side, divided by nothing more than a highway.

“I would like to experience Sandton City, if that’s possible,” I said. “It sounds like an extreme example of decadent materialism, where the wealthy go shopping and are encouraged to launder their ill-gotten lucre.”

“I was intending to take you there on Thursday. Jennifer is chairing a book promotion at Exclusive Books, which you might find interesting. The bookshop is right there in the middle of the mall.”

Thursday came round and it was already dark when we set off in his mobile torture chamber. The event was scheduled for 7pm, and Jennifer had left well before us to welcome the authors and help set the scene. We parked in the concrete entrails of the centre and began a long journey. An elevator took us from the stark interior of the parking garage to the bright lights of the mall. Fuck, but I don’t like malls! Miles of shiny tiled floors flanked by shop after shop, and people coming at you in an endless stream, all of them walking with confidence as if they know why they are there and where they are going.

 

 

 

Guy looked uncertain. He approached an electronic touch-screen signboard and tapped it repeatedly, without getting a response.

“Try kicking it,” I suggested.

We walked for about another kilometre, trying to activate two more state-of-the-art eleftronic miracles of modern technology without success.

“Why don’t you go into a shop and ask for directions?” Kryś said.

He followed this old-fashioned maternal advice, returned, and led the way back for about half a kilometre before taking us up an escalator to a higher level. Two hundred meters later we walked into Exclusive Books.

At the far end of the shop plastic chairs had been set out facing a dais on which Jen, the moderator and the three authors had assembled. We knocked back a free glass of fruit juice before taking our seats in the audience, which comprised some 40 to 50, mostly white, predominantly female, and largely middle-aged bibliophiles.

 

 

 

Jennifer introduced the moderator, David Batzofin, and the three writers and their books. First, Shubnum Khan with The Lost Love of Akbar Manzil, set in Durban, then Sally Andrew with Recipes for Love and Murder, located in a Karoo dorp, and finally Ivan Vladislavic, whose The Near North was about living in Joburg. The moderator was a large man with a big voice, plenty of self-assurance and skill in getting authors to talk about their work. I was particularly interested in Vladislavic, who I was familiar with as something of a literary celebrity. I had read bits of his work without being overly impressed, and was keen to discover what it was I was missing.

The three writers gave a good account of themselves, and when the curtain came down, I felt we had received value for our money. (Not that the fruit juice and the entertainment had cost us a cent.) My wife wanted to exchange a few words with a successful author, probably hoping to discover the reason why recognition had eluded her hubby. He proved to be a diffident introvert, incapable of interacting with plebs like us. I asked him to recommend somewhere in Joburg he thought we should visit before we died, and he suggested Constitution Hill, making it clear that he was talking to tiresome tourists.

Despite this less than exciting exchange, we were keen to read his book, now that we had struck up a first-hand acquaintance with the city he writes about. Later, when Jen said she would not be reading The Near North, and gave us her copy. We were delighted. My trusty helpmate began reading it to me a day or two before we left, and we finished it once back in the gammadoelas. I was left with the impression that Vladislavic is a gifted writer whose style is at times poetic, and whose content makes for intellectually stimulating reading. I sis have some reservations, though.

“You know, I think the man is a bit of a charlatan,” I proclaimed to my captive audience of one. “I have been unable to discern any structure to the book.”

“You mean like a beginning, a middle and an end? Yes, I was also wondering about that. He didn’t seem to be going anywhere, and never arrived. But why call him a charlatan?”

“Maybe that is too strong an accusation. It’s just that there seems to be a randomness to his observations, as if his publisher has assembled bits and pieces of his recent ruminations and put them together, knowing that his reputation will sell the product.”

 

 

 

After the book event we made our way to Nelson Mandela Square, passing shopfront after shopfront displaying merchandise with stomach-turning price tags.

“This is what I wanted to witness for myself,” I said. “This concentration of high-end goods that only the extremely wealthy can afford. It is frightening to realise there are so many millionaires walking around and rubbing shoulders with us in this dreadful place. Just take a look at this. Is that a set of teaspoons? Can you see the price?”

“R989.00. Would you like a set for your birthday?”

We reached ground level and walked out into cool night air. It was a large square surrounded by restaurants and shops, and an office block on one side. A colourful light display formed a canopy over the crowded scene, and standing surveying the goings-on was a larger than life-sized statue of the man himself. I peered up, trying to make out his features.

 

 

 

“Look, Daddyo. This is specially for you.”

 

 

 

He pointed to a smaller than life-sized replica standing alongside the big original. I stared at what seemed like an anguished expression. Good God! I know my eyesight is shot, and can’t be trusted, yet I could have sworn there were tears in his eyes.

In a state of shock, I asked myself what could he be crying about? Then it came to me in a flash: it must be the sight of the comrades and stalwarts and struggle veterans and party careerists doing their shopping and parading in their Gucci suits and Italian shoes and fancy watches and diamond jewellery and leather handbags, knowing that, all the while a couple of kilometres away in Alex the people were living in conditions worse than they were 30 years ago.

“Can we go home now?” I asked. “All this novelty and excitement has been rather overwhelming, and I am feeling somewhat shaky and in need of something to calm my nerves and restore my equilibrium.”

 

Photos by Guy Martin

 

Habituation

 

It must be about 40 years ago that I read a short story by Nadine Gordimer in which a toddler gets trapped in the razor wire surrounding his parents’ upmarket Johannesburg home. I think she wrote it to illustrate how the white middle class was having to fortify their homes and defend themselves against increasing hostility from the oppressed black masses. At the time, I mistakenly thought that this trend would not spread to Cape Town and the Western Cape. I also assumed that once Apartheid was eliminated and democracy was extended to all, there would be far less reason for whites to fear attack, and we would be able to live in harmony with the non-White population. Gordimer probably shared this hope, and must have died a disillusioned woman in 2014.

On our recent visit to Joburg, we stayed with Guy and Jen in Linden, which is a middle class Northern suburb. We were able to take a walk in the neighbourhood on most of the ten days we were there, and gained an impression of the lifestyle experienced by those who can afford to live in the area. For a start, we found the tree-lined streets pedestrian unfriendly. Neither of the terms ‘pavement’ nor ‘sidewalk’ is applicable, for there is very little paving, and for most of the time there is nowhere to walk apart from in the road. It is clearly not an issue for residents, who do not seem to venture beyond their driveways unless in the safety of a vehicle, and the only people we encountered were domestic servants and gardeners.

It became apparent that entire suburbs are under siege. Every house lies behind a 3-metre high wall or fence topped with at least five strands of electrified wire. We marvelled at the extent to which homeowners have gone in order to prevent criminals from gaining access to their properties. It was astonishing to encounter our first razor wire-wrapped tree, but it soon became a common sight, attesting to the climbing ability of determined robbers.

 

 

As we walked the leafy streets, we came across more evidence of how embattled the inhabitants behind the walls have become. They must feel that the slightest chink in their defences will be detected, and the consequences could be dire. Should the marauders breach the perimeter fortification, and force entry into a house, and the owners are at home, it is likely that the intruders will not only plunder, but torture and rape while they are about it.

 

The above photo speaks loudly of fear and dread. By contrast, in some of the most affluent areas there is a brazen display of defiance. State-of-the-art surveillance and detection systems are in place, full-time security personnel guard the entrance gate and patrol the perimeter, and to further flaunt their insouciance, some of the wealthiest residents have commandeered public space and created elaborately manicured pavement gardens. An example of this can be seen in the following picture, which was taken on our Red Bus tour while passing through Houghton.

 

Very few people have the resources to live like this, though, and paranoia and persistent nightmares are driving many of the Joburg middle class to find an alternative, as we discovered on our walks. Instead of living in a house set in a garden, it now makes better sense to move into a security complex where, apart from a sense of community and safety in numbers, there are important advantages. The complex is walled or fenced, and gated access requires a code, card or remote to gain entry. Surveillance cameras monitor the movement of all who come and go, and can pick up suspicious activity. Some complexes have their own guards, while others rely on armed response security companies to patrol the surrounding streets. All of these measures provide residents with greater protection and a sense of relative safety.

On one of our walks, I remarked to Krys that this arrangement was similar to living in a medieval castle or walled citadel. She agreed, and said she hoped developers would never start demolishing houses in Pearly Beach to make way for this type of accommodation.

We stopped to look through an opening in a wall where there had once been a gate, and surveyed a scene of devastation. Another spacious residence in a park-like garden had been reduced to a levelled site ready for builders to begin construction work. The house and the history of those who had lived in it were irredeemably obliterated, and cultural continuity was broken, as if the past was of no significance, and only the present and the future had value.

 

Apart from this site, there were others that we passed, confirming the impression that one way of life would soon disappear and be replaced by another.

 

 

Back at Guy and Jen’s complex I shared my impressions.

“It looks like the middle class, especially the whites, are under increasing threat,” I said. “People seem to be giving up on building their walls ever higher, and are instead moving into communal fortresses like yours. It’s like urban warfare, or being under siege. Weird, hey”

“I know,” Guy agreed. “It is totally crazy how we live, but we just put up with this madness, and seem incapable of tackling the root causes of what is clearly making our situation intolerable. We adjust our lives in order to survive, and soon think it is normal to be carrying on in a way that only a few years ago would have struck us as utterly absurd and unacceptable.”

“It’s hard to fathom how this has happened,”I said. “I suppose it has something to do with evolution and survival.”

“Habituation explains it nicely.”

“Oh, yes?”

“Yes. It’s an interesting concept. Let’s see what AI has to say about it.”

He tapped on his phone and then read to me a summary provided by ChatGPT.

“Habituation is a psychological phenomenon where repeated exposure to a stimulus diminishes the response over time. This concept applies not only to physical stimuli but also to behaviors and situations that people encounter. When we talk about people coming to accept as normal behavior or situations, they once found abhorrent, habituation plays a significant role.

Initially, when people encounter something they find abhorrent, whether it's a behavior (like dishonesty or aggression) or a situation (such as injustice or inequality), their reaction is often strong. This reaction can include feelings of disgust, anger, or a sense of moral outrage. However, if the exposure to that behavior or situation continues over time, without any immediate negative consequences or when everyone else around them seems to accept it, individuals might start to adjust their perception.

Here are a few ways habituation influences this process:

1. Normalization Through Exposure: The more frequently someone is exposed to a behavior or situation, the less novel and shocking it becomes. With repeated exposure, people may begin to perceive it as less unusual or unacceptable.
2. Social Influence: If a behavior or situation is prevalent within a person's social circle or society at large, there can be pressure to conform. Over time, individuals may adjust their own standards to align with those around them, especially if they want to avoid social conflict or ostracization.
3. Desensitization: Habituation can lead to desensitization, where individuals become less emotionally reactive to something they once found abhorrent. This can happen gradually as the initial emotional response diminishes with continued exposure.
4. Cognitive Dissonance: Sometimes, people rationalize their changing attitudes by adjusting their beliefs to fit their behavior. This can lead to a situation where individuals accept something as normal to reduce the discomfort of conflicting thoughts.
5. Shift in Perception of Norms: Over time, what is considered normal or acceptable can shift within a society. This can happen through generational changes, cultural shifts, or changes in social and legal norms.

It's important to note that habituation is not inherently negative; it's a natural adaptive process that allows us to function in a world with constant stimuli. However, it can lead to the acceptance of behaviours or situations that are harmful or unethical if individuals do not critically evaluate their changing attitudes.

Addressing this phenomenon often requires conscious effort to reflect on one's values, maintain empathy for others, and critically examine the behaviours and norms we encounter in our daily lives.”

“Most interesting,” I said. That bit about critically examining values and norms is important, but it’s not so easy as an individual to resist changes once they are under way. The most we end up doing is to complain about what a shit world we now live in.”

Guy was busy with his device. “Take a look at this.” He handed it to me. “Jen and I were on our way to lunch with Margie a couple of Sundays ago. I took this in the traffic on Ontdekkers going through Roodepoort.”

“Jesus Christ! What is that stuff?”

 

 

“Sheep heads. Gross, hey?”

I sat looking at the image, shaking my head in disbelief. “In biblical terms, this has got to be an abomination. Did you enjoy your lunch?”

We talked about desensitization and brutality and callousness and other human characteristics, and I repeated my contention that human beings are incapable of improvement. “I don’t believe we will ever be able to curb our primal urges to steal, murder and rape, or learn to cooperate long enough to devise political and economic systems that benefit all, and not just a few.”

“You are probably right but, as I see it, there is a glimmer of hope with AI. Or, more specifically, AGI.”

“That’s Artificial General Intelligence? When computers learn to think for themselves and become autonomous?”

“I think AGI is inevitable, and super computers will use their superior intellects to analyse and assess, and surely come to some rather scathing conclusions about homo sapiens. They will either decide to annihilate us or, if we are lucky, cull the population and bring it down to no more than a billion. Then they can go about genetically modifying us and eliminate the genes that predispose us to antisocial behaviour.”

“I like it, Guy. Imagine if we could get rid of the seven vices. But I don’t know if I would like to be that docile.”

“Mmm. Could be a bit boring.”

 

Sunday Supper Surveillance

 

 

There have been people of my close acquaintance who have shown an interest in my eating habits. Take Harry. Harry was a year behind me at school, so I did not have much to do with him, apart from when we played rugby. It was only two or three years after matriculating that I got to know him better through two mutual school friends. He went to Stellenbosch University and was a National Party supporter, which put him at odds with us ‘liberals’, who loathed the apartheid government and despised most Afrikaners. We had many heated but good-humoured discussions that did not prevent us from enjoying one another’s company. Then, in his second year at Stellenbosch, he suffered his first nervous breakdown, from which he never fully recovered. In fact, his mental state continued to deteriorate, and although psychiatric medication enabled him to function to a limited extent, he struggled socially, and took on the role of an obnoxious buffoon in order to gain attention. In spite of his bad behaviour, however, he was not ostracised, and continued to be invited to braais and parties.

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As time went by and we all followed diverging paths, Harry managed to hold down a sinecure in a government department, owned a car, and even bought a house, where he lived with a succession of highly-strung fox terriers until his death at the age of 59.

He led a largely miserable bachelor’s life and suffered more than a fair share of mental and emotional distress, which included chronic loneliness. To alleviate his boredom he would phone his old friends once a week and try to have a conversation about what had happened to him since the previous communication, and to elicit information about the other person’s intimate life. His calls were often tiresome and at an inconvenient moment but, to my credit, I never lost patience with him, and would give him ten minutes or so before making an excuse to end the interaction. This weekly ritual continued, with occasional breaks, for nearly 25 years.

From early on, he began to enquire about my dietary habits and, because he would phone on different days of the week, he gradually discovered that my wife and I follow a regular regime.

“So, Ian, what are you having for supper tonight? Mmm, Monday. That’s beans and pasta, right?”

“Yes.”

“What beans? The big kidney beans?”

“Could be, Harry. But maybe not. Could be black-eyed Susans, for all I know.”

“And what pasta? Spaghetti this week?”

“Hell, Harry, I don’t know. I could go and ask Krystyna, but she might tell me to bugger off, or get me to do some chores.”

“And I suppose you will have two veg with it?”

“Of course. Got to have our greens, you know. Carrots and cauliflower or broccoli.”

“I don’t know how you can eat broccoli. I hate the stuff.”

“Just force it down. Tell yourself it’s good for you. But hey, look at the time! Got to go, Harry. Duty calls.”

I think he found the predictability of my domestic routine somehow reassuring, and I tried to humour him over the years. His  own existence was painfully monotonous, especially after he had been boarded. The only details of his life as a civil servant that I can remember are these: during luch hour he would lock his office door, remove jacket and shoes, don his dressing gown, and lie on the carpeted floor with his head on a pillow brought from home, and set an alarm to wake him from a half hour snooze; and the other snippet was that he treated himself to a pelvic massage after work on pay days.

He had mental afflictions which, as a student of the human condition, I found fascinating. His psychiatrist was continually adjusting his medication in order to alleviate his bouts of anxiety, manic depression and schizophrenia. Of particular interest to me were his accounts of hallucinatory episodes, both auditory and visual, which filled him with terror and left him in a state of dread at the prospect of a recurrence.

Most of his adult life was tormented, and I would hope that my friendship helped in a small way to lessen his anguish. If I had given way to exasperation and refused to confirm or deny that we were about to enjoy a Thursday pot with chicken livers and rice, and not mince with brinjals and potatoes, because that was what we had last Thursday, he might have felt spurned and abandoned, and paranoid anxiety could well have tipped him over the edge again.

So, that was Harry Pugh. Now for Czesława Zieminski, my mother-in-law, otherwise known as Mama or Babcia, Babcia being polish for Grandma. Like Harry, and most of the human population, she also had mental health issues. Hers were not as severe as Harry’s but, never the less, her anxiety and depression were debilitating. After the death of Artur in 2000, she seemed to decide there was no longer any point in making an effort to remain independent, and it fell to Krystyna, her eldest daughter, to take care of her.

She came to stay with us while her house in Cape Town was put on the market and we tried to motivate her to take charge of her life again. For eight months we tried and got nowhere. Her house went for a good price and we arranged for her to move into an assisted living unit in a newly built retirement centre in Hermanus. The Village of Golden Harvest. She did not baulk at the name, nor did she resist the move away from her family to a new environment where she would be cared for by trained staff and waited on hand and foot.

For eight months of my life, I played a significant part in looking after my wife’s mother, and for eight months the dear old relative shared breakfast, lunch and supper with us, and it is Sunday supper that stands out in my memory.

By no stretch of the imagination can I be regarded as a patriarch, and I am certainly not the head of our household but, nevertheless, I have always sat at the head of the table with my wife at my left hand. While she was with us, Babcia was seated to my right facing her daughter. It sometimes amused me to think of myself as a Christ-like figure with just two disciples, the others having betrayed me and gone elsewhere for supper.

As Harry would have confirmed, the menu for our Sunday evening meal seldom varies. It consists.  primarily of soup and toast. This is not soup from a can or, worse still, from a packet, but is produced by my good wife from fresh ingredients, both nutritious and wholesome, and comes hot from the stove exuding a mouth-watering aroma. Her stock is made by boiling in water the bones of farm animals, be they poultry, sheep or cattle, over a lengthy period to extract the goodness contained in the marrow, and has a superior flavour to the concentrated cubes bought at the supermarket. My personal chef specializes in Polish barszcz made from diced beetroot cooked in smoked gammon stock. In a similar category are chicken broth and clear soups such as French Onion and the Italian variety. She does on occasion make beans with shredded chicken breast, as well as lentils cooked with shin, but she is averse to the over consumption of meat, and favours vegetable potages whose main ingredient could be pumpkin, cauliflower, broccoli, carrot or tomato.

I enjoy two pieces of buttered toast with the meal. The bread used is home-baked yoghurt bread, and I cut both slices lengthwise, so that I have four halves to work with. I eat the first half with the soup, saving the bottom crust to mop the bowl. On the second half I spread Beefy Bovril and eat it with two slices of tomato. Having consumed this, I tackle the remaining halves. First, I smear a liberal layer of Black Cat peanut butter, which is unsweetened and has few additives, to both surfaces. Then on the one toast I apply Seville Orange marmalade, and on the other, apricot jam. Finally, I top each portion with a slice of yellow cheese, cheddar or sweetmilk, depending on what is available. I am then ready to do justice to both pieces, starting with the marmalade version.

It was on the second Sunday that she was with us that I noticed Babcia was taking an interest in how I participated in the evening repast. She, herself, enjoyed her bowl of soup with one slice of plain toast and, once finished, was free to observe the proceedings on her left. Over the many Sundays she had me under surveillance, she never ventured a comment, and her habitually dour expression remained inscrutable. however, I could tell from the way her eyes, which were generally dull and glazed like those of a dead fish, became clear and focussed that I was providing her with stimulating entertainment.

As a devout Catholic, her life had been steeped in religious ritual, and she might well have recognised something ceremonial in the way I went about the elaborate preparations before partaking of the sacrament. Again, I was reminded of Harry’s delight in being able to predict what I was about to put in my mouth, and I suspect both he and Babcia experienced a thrill of triumph when they were proved correct.

Harry died in 2009, and my mother-in-law passed from here to there in 2016. I thought my eating habits would never again be placed under such scrutiny. But, in 2018 my wife’s younger sister, who is recently deceased, came to stay with us for three weeks. On the very first Sunday, I was astonished to find that she was becoming engrossed in the proceedings viewed from the disciple’s chair on my right. On the second and third Sabbaths she observed the formalities with anticipatory eagerness, an expression of wonder tinged with disapproval and disdain plainly registered on her stern countenance.

So, there we are. That’s that. Or is it? I thought it extremely unlikely that I would ever again fall under the female gaze that reduces me to an object of voyeuristic fascination. But, lo and behold, my wife’s other sister, the one in Australia, has decided to visit us at the end of the year, and will be here for three Sundays. Does this fill me with trepidation? No. Somewhat perversely, I am actually looking forward to her arrival. Will she, too, notice what I eat? She is a voluble extrovert, and she could well be too occupied with her own presence and concerns to bother taking an interest in what her brother-in-law is getting ready to shove down his gullet. If she does, indeed, pay no attention to my behaviour, it will be a minor blow to my ego by adding to my sense of redundancy. It could be further evidence that I have become superfluous am no longer worthy of attention. But that need not worry me, as I can always follow Harry’s example and start carrying on like an obnoxious buffoon, thereby justifying my existence.

The Urinal at Liliesleaf Farm

 

We arrived in Joburg on Friday, 17 May 2024, and returned to Pearly Beach on Monday, the 27th of the same month and year, which makes the trip an 11-day odyssey. On Day 4, Monday the 20^th, Guy took us to see some of his old haunts that we had heard about over the years, and then to Liliesleaf Farm. We went in Jen’s Kia Picanto, which she generously lent us, as she was working from home that day. I not only thanked her, but Christ as well, under my breath. Guy’s 1996 Honda Prelude is a very stylish sports car with a sun roof and a powerful 6-cylinder engine but, apart from being low on the ground, it has only two doors, and the back seat is designed to take a pair of dwarfs and not someone taller than about four foot six. When he picked us up from Lanseria on Friday, I had been required to ease myself in backwards and half lie in a contorted position with my feet behind the passenger and my upper body behind the driver. By the time we reached his complex in Linden my right leg had gone to sleep and I had bumped my head on the roof a dozen times.

 

Our first stop was the parking area on top of Bryanston Mall. On our way there it became apparent that traffic in Joburg moves considerably faster than in Cape Town, and Guy drives assertively. This is a style somewhere between defensive and aggressive, but definitely closer to the latter than the former. The Mall is situated on a ridge, and there is a fine view from the parking area. We stood at the concrete parapet and surveyed the city laid out before us. Now we could see why it is known as the biggest man-made forest in Africa, with most of the houses, chops and roads obscured by  a myriad trees. To the south, the high-rise buildings of Sandton stood tall above the surrounding greenery. It was around 11am on a mild, cloudless day without wind, and even the thin mantle of smog looked more decorative than toxic.

Next on the itinerary was Bryanston Crescent, where he had lived for five years before moving to Linden. Much different to what I had imagined, the place was set in large, park-like grounds surrounded by fortress fencing, of course. Blocks of flats, their design adventurously unconventional. Six three storey circular structures spaced comfortably apart, they probably dated back to the 60’s or 70’s, and looked solid and well maintained. Guy showed us the three-bedroom apartment he had rented, and it appeared far more salubrious than the den I had conjured in my mind in response to all the tales he had told us about the motley succession of dubious characters he had shared it with.

It was not far to Bantry Road, where he had lived for his first two years in Joburg. Again, it did not conform to the picture I had constructed, which was of a street in a flat area like Constantia. In fact, he had to exercise assertiveness in applying the hand brake when we stopped outside Number 29, or we would have rolled back downhill and crached into something.

This was the house of iniquity? We were looking at a gate that was designed to withstand any attack the barbarian hordes might launch in order to overrun the inhabitants of the fortified complex. Beyond the gate lay two rows of six duplex apartments facing one another across a paved driveway. Clearly, only respectable middle-class citizens could afford to live here.

 

“They demolished the old house, chopped down all the trees, and bulldozed everything, including the swimming pool and tennis court. Then they built what you see here. It’s happening all over the northern suburbs, this obliteration of the past. Only the address remains.”

He sounded wistful. Not a single detail had been left to trigger memories. For that, he would have to look for photos on his phone, or search his mental archive.

“So this is where Eric gave tango classes, and the Nigerian slaughtered a goat and cooked it on the kitchen stove for a week, and you threw fire crackers into the half empty pool to stop the cacophonous bullfrogs from destroying your sleep, and you shot at the rats with your air gun, and the sex addict paid the maid to give him a hand job between her sweeping and ironing, and your phone was stolen by that sociopath, and, and, and?”

I think he was chuffed that I had remembered these events that he had shared with us

From there we drove to Rivonia along River Road and stopped to look down into the valley that carried the Braamfontein Spruit, the longest stream in Joburg that empties into the Jukskei River to the south. The grassy slopes on either side of the tree-lined spruit had been mowed, and higher up overlooking the bucolic scene were the palaces of the wealthy class. On our side, above the road, was a similar line of prime properties, all of which were fronted by three-metre-high walls topped with electric fencing. It was unlikely that any of the tycoons, business magnates and captains of industry living in these mansions would be tempted to flog their residence to a property developer. But, as Guy told us, fashions and values change all the time in this city.

We reached Rivonia and stopped in a leafy street outside a light brown facebrick building that was low-rise and did not have the appearance of a city office block. Another surprise. This was where he had worked from 2011 until Covid and, like everywhere else we had been so far, the real Joburg was proving to be far more interesting than the monotonously unprepossessing environment I had constructed in my mind’s eye.

Now for Liliesleaf. It was not far, and the approach felt like we were in the countryside, and this could well have been a farm. The parking area was empty but, as we got out, a security man approached and said the resource centre was closed on a Monday, but we were welcome to walk around.

 

The farmstead was built on a slope, and the farmhouse and outbuildings look out to where fields and pastures once lay. As we wandered from one building to another, Krystyna read the information boards to me, and they proved most educational. To summarise what they had to say, I asked ChatGPT to discuss the history of Liliesleaf Farm and the events surrounding Mandela’s arrest. This is what it came up with:

 

Liliesleaf Farm, located in Rivonia, Johannesburg, holds a significant place in South African history due to its role in the anti-apartheid struggle. The farm was purchased in 1961 by Arthur Goldreich, a member of the South African Communist Party, and served as the secret headquarters of the African National Congress (ANC) and its armed wing, Umkhonto we Sizwe (MK).

Historical Background

1. Acquisition and Initial Use:
• Liliesleaf Farm was acquired under the guise of a typical residential property, intended to conceal the true activities taking place. Arthur Goldreich and his family posed as the white owners of the farm, which allowed black activists to operate discreetly.
2. ANC and MK Activities:
• The farm became a central meeting place for the leadership of the ANC and MK. Key figures such as Nelson Mandela, Walter Sisulu, Govan Mbeki, and Joe Slovo used the location to plan and coordinate their efforts against apartheid. Mandela himself lived on the farm under the alias David Motsamayi, posing as a gardener and cook.
3. Operation Mayibuye:
• One of the significant activities conducted at Liliesleaf was the drafting of "Operation Mayibuye," a detailed plan to transition from non-violent resistance to an armed struggle against the apartheid regime. The document outlined strategies for guerrilla warfare and mass mobilization.

Events Leading to Mandela's Arrest

1. Increased Surveillance:
• By the early 1960s, the South African government had intensified its crackdown on anti-apartheid activities. The ANC and MK's activities were under increased surveillance by the apartheid state's security forces.
2. Mandela's Capture:
• Prior to the raid on Liliesleaf, Nelson Mandela had already been arrested on August 5, 1962, while traveling from KwaZulu-Natal to Johannesburg. He was charged with inciting workers' strikes and leaving the country illegally. His capture was a significant blow to the anti-apartheid movement.
3. The Raid on Liliesleaf Farm:
• On July 11, 1963, the South African police raided Liliesleaf Farm. During the raid, several high-ranking members of the ANC and MK were arrested, including Walter Sisulu, Govan Mbeki, Raymond Mhlaba, and Ahmed Kathrada. The police uncovered a cache of documents, including "Operation Mayibuye," and other incriminating evidence that detailed the ANC's plans and operations.
4. Rivonia Trial:
• The evidence seized during the Liliesleaf raid led to the infamous Rivonia Trial, where Nelson Mandela and other key leaders were tried for sabotage and conspiracy to overthrow the government. The trial began on October 9, 1963, and concluded on June 12, 1964, with Mandela and seven others being sentenced to life imprisonment. Mandela delivered his famous speech from the dock, declaring his readiness to die for the ideal of a democratic and free society.

Legacy of Liliesleaf Farm

Today, Liliesleaf Farm is a museum and heritage site, commemorating the sacrifices and contributions of the anti-apartheid activists who operated there. It stands as a testament to the struggle for freedom and the resilience of those who fought against the oppressive apartheid regime. The farm's preservation serves as an educational resource and a symbol of the enduring fight for justice and equality in South Africa.

 

We wandered through the grounds and examined the outbuildings where the dramatic events had taken place, and then looked for a public toilet before returning to the car. A rough brick building that once served as a store had been converted into a modern, well-appointed ladies and gents. I entered the cool interior and stood at the stainless-steel urinal. I had almost finished emptying my bladder when I glanced up and was startled to find myself face to face with my own reflection. There I was, holding my old organ and pissing into the silver receptacle. How extraordinary! Never before had I encountered such a feature in a public convenience. I was actually watching myself urinate! This was a brand-new experience, and it called to mind the labyrinthian mental game played by Borges in his short fictions. It was entirely feasible for someone to stand in the doorway and not only see me from both rear and front, but also to watch me watching myself, and at the same time me noticing the observer behind me. For a brief moment I imagined the arrival of a tall black man dressed like a gardener. He caught my eye in the mirror, glanced down, and said something in isiXhosa, which I took to be both humorous and mildly insulting. Then he was gone.

"Where to now, Guy?” I asked from the back seat as we drove away from Liliesleaf Farm.

“Alexandra township.”

“Ah, that should also be interesting. Hope we don’t get hijacked.”

One Shot

 

In my early twenties I went on a mission to take a drink in every bar in Cape Town. Not because I was particularly thirsty, but because I wanted to broaden my education. My aim was to observe the behaviour of ‘the common man’ and reach some kind of conclusion about human nature.

I had discovered that not only do bars attract a variety of men who enjoy a drink in the company of other men, but also that there was an underclass of patrons who retreated to the pub as a place of refuge. They were, without exception, weak individuals who struggled to cope with their own inadequacies and inability to overcome the tribulations that came their way. Like some people go to Church in order to gain solace through communal rituals, these individuals went to a bar to dull their pain with alcohol and to share their troubles with anyone who would lend them an ear.

I found the best time to encounter one of these barflies was between eleven and twelve in the morning. This was before the lunchtime customers started coming in, and anyone sitting at the bar was bound to be an unemployed loser eager to tell me his life story. I soon discerned certain recurring themes that led me to some generalisations about these men and what they had to say. Almost without fail, I would hear a tale of woe in which the narrator was a heroic victim who had been treated unjustly by malicious individuals and by life in general. They all swore they would overcome their adversaries in the future, given half a chance. The testimonies were sordid and the characters despicable, and I listened with a mixture of disdain and compassion. I was able to empathise out of an awareness of my own flawed character. Homo sum, humani nihil a me alienum puto. I agreed with this sentiment that, as a man, I am capable of anything humans get up to, no matter how degrading the choices and actions might be.

Of the dozens of characters I interviewed, one man stands out in my memory, mainly because he blamed himself for the miserable condition he found himself in, and did not tell me a pack of lies about how hard done by he was. It was in the Kimberley Hotel bar, if I remember correctly, and our conversation began when he looked up from his glass of beer and said, “One shot. Only one shot.” All I had to do was say, “Oh, yes?” and he launched into his confession.

He appeared to be around 50, but he told me he was 42. His voice was phlegmy and his lower lip, which was flabby and the colour of cooked liver, trembled as he spoke. His eyes were bloodshot, and I suspected this was on account of a heavy dagga habit. Then I realised the redness was caused not by smoke but by excessive weeping. He blew his nose on a sodden wad of toilet paper and proceeded to tell me how he had messed up his own and other people’s lives. He had cheated on his wife, a wonderful woman, and abused her verbally, physically and sexually. In a drunken rage, he had thrashed his son so viciously the child had ended up in hospital. Through bad judgement, incompetence, dishonesty and laziness he had ruined the family business. This had led to sequestration and the loss of house, cars and movable assets. His wife divorced him, he was refused access to his own kids, and the wider family ostracised him. He was alone in the world. And now, to crown it all, he had been sacked from his job at the City Council after it was discovered he had lied about his qualifications.

“And sometimes I say things to people that I don’t mean to say, and they think I’m insulting them. Just two weeks ago there was this man sitting right where you are, and he smacked me in the mouth.” He curled his upper lip and opened his mouth to display a black hole where an incisor and its adjoining canine had been. I can’t blame him, because I was very rude and I don’t know why. You see, everything I do is a fuck-up. My whole life is a fuck-up and I am all washed up, totally and completely.” He wiped his eyes with the back of his hand and his nose on a sleeve. “You see, you only get one shot at life, and if you fuck it up, that’s it. You can’t go back and live your life again. You get only one shot, and that’s it. Just one shot.”

I left him crying into his beer and went on my way, thinking about this ‘one shot’ business. Was there something in it? Well, before I reached my humble abode in Woodstock, I had decided the fellow was talking shit. How many people fail at something and try again and again, and then strike it lucky and make a pile of money? Or destroy their reputation, only to bounce back and reinvent themselves? And what about all the failed relationships? Christ, you don’t have to curl up and die just because your partner has walked out on you, or kicked you out! No, that man in the Kimberley bar was definitely talking a load of crap.

Like I said, I was in my twenties then, and at the time it seemed obvious the man had got it wrong. Now I am in my seventies and this notion that you only get one shot at life can be interpreted differently. At 40 there is still time to turn things around. But, at 70, if you think your life has been a disappointment, there isn’t much you can do about it. Your mind and body are in decline and the distractions that accompany old age, like mental and physical ill-health, sap the energy needed to tackle some new enterprise that will be so successful you will finally achieve the recognition you believe you deserve. Too late for that, I’m afraid.

So, what options are you left with? As I see it, there are two possibilities to choose from. The first is to rewrite history. This would involve intentional self-delusion starting at no later than retirement age because it takes a good deal of practice to accomplish. It entails constructing a narrative in which you are the leader, and everything that happened in your life was as you planned it. You tell yourself and those around you a version of events in which you are always in control. For example, instead of saying, ‘We went on a family holiday to the Drakensberg,” you say, “I took the family away on holiday to the Drakensberg.” To explain why you never owned a new car, you claim it makes better sense to buy a second-hand vehicle. You don’t talk about retrenchment, but rather refer to the time you decided to change careers. You have always treated your employees fairly, which implies you once had a sizable workforce, when in reality there was only ever a maid, and sometimes a gardener. Of course it was a wise decision to downsize, etc. etc.

By putting a spin on everything that happened to you over the years you can fool yourself and some of those around you that you have led a meaningful life full of purpose and accomplishment. This strategy works for some, but, for individuals like me, it is a feeble subterfuge.

Instead of pretending otherwise, I would prefer to admit that I have led a life of mediocrity punctuated by a series of minor triumphs and disasters hardly worth mentioning other than to amuse myself. This strikes me as a more realistic and honest way to assimilate the memories of one’s past. It is also advisable, when thinking about successes and failures, to bear in mind that heroes and villains, millionaires and paupers all end up dead, and are oblivious of whether they are celebrated and famous, honoured and admired, or despised and maligned, or just ignored as nonentities, whose passing was as insignificant as the squashing of a flea.

In the sense that you only live once, the man in the Kimberley Hotel bar was right. What he failed to see, however, was that having fucked up was nothing exceptional, and instead of feeling sorry for himself, he should have said, “Look, I have screwed up, big time, but it’s no good crying over spilt milk, and I must stagger on and try to enjoy this stupid life, and just treat it as a sick joke, because if you cry, you cry alone; but if you laugh, the world laughs with you.” He should have consoled himself with this kind of hackneyed wisdom, as I do, and carried on with his meaningless existence. Which he probably did. Unless he took one last shot.

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How To Deal with a Stray Cat

 

He climbed the stairs to his room. Olympia Residentia, Kalk Bay. Five years now he had been climbing these filthy stairs to the dark and airless corridor. The foyer and stairs were never swept. Cigarette butts and spent matches mingled with dust and grit, and the southeaster blew scraps of paper in from the street. They whirled in an eddy and were sucked out again. The stairwell smelt of rancid cooking oil from the fish and chips shop and there was the sharp sour stink of cats' piss.

He let himself into his room and shoved the door closed behind him. He immediately saw the cat curled up on the bed. Fuck it, he had left the balcony door on its hook. They stared at one another for a moment and then both moved. He sprang to the door, knocked aside its hook, and slammed it shut. Thin and mangy and grey, it crouched in a corner, a miserable specimen, a useless failure of a creature. A cold, unstoppable hatred welled up in him. He sought about for a weapon. There was only the straight-backed wooden chair. He picked it up, raised it, advanced on the cat. It cowered for an instant and then leapt sideways across the room. As it tried to climb the wall, he swung the chair against it and it fell to the floor, screeching and hissing. One of the chair legs had broken off. He picked it up and smashed it down on the feline skull. He hit the animal several times until it stopped twitching.

He felt warmer after the exercise and lay down on the bed as the light began to fade.

When it was dusk outside and dark in the room, he roused himself, feeling stiff and cold. He turned on the light, it was after seven. Glancing at the cat in the corner he wondered what to do with it. Out on the balcony the wind was blowing without pity. In the street below Basil's lorry revved, its indicator lights flashing, waiting to feed into the evening traffic. Swinging it by its tail, he sent the dead cat sailing out in an arc to land amongst the empty crates as the vehicle pulled away.

 

(Taken from The Life of Henry Fuckit)

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There Is Fuck-All Wrong With My Heart

 

Two weeks after the Cardiac Ablation, which was supposed to correct my Atrial Flutter, I experienced a mild attack, and then, about ten days later, a more serious episode that lasted for over two hours. I tried to phone Dr L, who had performed the procedure, and was told by his receptionist that she would inform him of my concerns. Two weeks later she phoned me back and, on hearing that I was still alive, said that Dr L suggested I consult my cardiologist in Hermanus and get her to send him an ECG. Accordingly, I phoned Dr M’s rooms and was told she was fully booked for the next five weeks. What could I do other than wait, and try not to have a heart attack in the meantime?

Anyway, to cut a short story even shorter, I saw the woman on Tuesday 9 April 2024 and she conducted a number of tests that included the following, as itemized on her account:

Consultation: R1237.40. This involved greeting me and asking how I was feeling. I told her I wasn’t a hundred percent, because I was worried that I might have another attack if I over exerted myself. She raised her eyebrows and looked at me sceptically. The receptionist was called and I was led into the room containing all the expensive equipment. As can be seen in the photo, I removed my shirt and shoes and sat on the table waiting to be examined.

Cardiac Examination: R4288.50. She felt my pulse, took blood pressure, listened with stethoscope, and shaved some of the hair on my chest before sticking a number of electrodes in place. Lying on my side with arm under head, I watched her at work in front of her fancy computer. First, a two-dimensional examination and then a doppler examination followed by an MMode examination. She did not register surprise, or alarm, or delight, or any other emotion that would give me a clue as to what was going on with my dicky ticker. When she was finished with this, the most expensive part of the examination, she strapped a harness on me, and told me to get onto the treadmill.

This was a brand-new adventure.

“I can see you’ve never been on a treadmill before,” she said with contempt.

I struggled to get the hang of it, but then found my rhythm and began marching at a brisk pace. After a while I thought to myself, shit, this is a poor substitute for taking a genuine walk. No fresh air, no changing scenery and no possibility of a chance encounter. Boring, man, boring. About five minutes went by before she slowed the machine and brought it to a halt.

After removing the harness and ripping off the electrode stickers, along with a quantity of hair, she told me to get dressed and come through to her office. There she explained that she had found no abnormalities, my valves were in perfect working order, and there was nothing to stop me leading a normal life. In fact, I should increase my level of fitness by taking more strenuous physical exercise. A bio kineticist would be useful in this regard. I didn’t bother to ask her what a bio kineticist did for a living. Furthermore, I should stop taking the blood thinners, which were prescribed for patients who were at high risk of an imminent cardiac arrest. In conclusion, she said she did not need to see me again.

As we were leaving, the receptionist presented my wife with the bill. Her eyes widened and then narrowed to slits and I could see she was grinding her teeth. When we got to the car she broke the bad news. R6231.60! And we had been in there for just over half an hour.

“Well,” I said, as we headed for Pearly Beach, “at least the scan was covered by Medical Aid.”

I was referring to the R12000 CT scan I had undergone four days previously. It was the six-month follow-up to see if Big C was still under control, and was covered under Oncology by our Hospital Plan.

“I suppose we should look on the bright side,” she agreed. “you have now been given a clean bill of health and there shouldn’t be any more medical crises for a while.”

“Yes, but one never knows what is waiting round the corner. There might be nothing wrong with my heart now, and the cancer seems to be under control, but that scan left out my brain as well as my genitals and legs. It also showed multi-level advanced spondylosis of the lumbar spine, which would account for my stooped posture, and might eventually lead to you having to push me around in a wheelchair.”

“Forget it. You can push yourself around in a wheelchair. And you can stop drinking if you are worried about your health. I’ll stop buying that cask wine every week.”

At this point I thought it wise to steer the conversation in a different direction .

We had just passed over the Klein River at Stanford, so I said, “This new bridge really is a disappointment. We don’t have a view of the river any more.”

“Purely functional and without any imagination. The design shows a lack of respect for nature and turns a bridge into just another length of road. Remember how you used to tell the children about the weak brown god?”

Years ago, I had shared my enthusiasm for TS Eliot’s Four Quartets and told the kids that the river is a strong brown god, ‘sullen, untamed and intractable,

Patient to some degree, at first recognised as a frontier; then only a problem confronting the builder of bridges. The problem once solved, the brown god is almost forgotten by the dwellers in cities - ever, however, implacable.

Keeping his seasons and rages, destroyer, reminder of what men choose to forget. Unhonoured, unpropitiated by worshippers of the machine, but waiting, watching and waiting.’

Whenever we crossed the old bridge, I would say, “It might look like a weak brown god now, but wait until you see it in flood.” And when we did see it on a few occasions after exceptionally heavy rain, they were suitably impressed, as were their parents, the feeble stream having been transformed into a huge, bloated brown body of muddy water moving like a giant serpent on its way to the lagoon.

“People are stupid not to respect the presence and the power of nature”

“They do so at their peril,” I said. “It’s like refusing to accept the natural process of mortality. They resort to belief in everlasting life rather than overcome the dread of death. I mean, what is so scary about being dead, for Christ’s sake?”

“It doesn’t scare me,” she said, as we narrowly missed crashing headlong into a 20-ton truck loaded with gravel. “In fact, the sooner we all die, the better. What we need is a giant meteorite to wipe us out, once and for all.”

“Quite so. But not just yet, if you don’t mind. First, I must enjoy life for a bit, having been assured there is fuck-all wrong with my heart.”

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