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
