No, not London, but Johannesburg, as seen from the air. Even the pilot mentioned it as we came in to land at O R Tambo airport (Jan Smuts Airport when we lived here in the 7os). Bush fire and wood fire smoke made it difficult to identify the city and surrounds as we flew in to land at the City of Gold. All very emotional for us, the feeling wore off abruptly as our driver led us to our vehicle in which he was to drive us to our guest house in a northern suburb. He deposited us to wait a minute while he went to get the car, in a dingy, very dark and dirty parking area where we counted one strip light working out of forty, and the sentry-box where presumably a security guard lives was broken and held together with polythene sheet and duct tape. I clutched my handbag closer to me because, yes, Joburg has got a bad press when it comes to safety and security. In fact we met quite a few people in our travels who deliberately avoid the city completely.
However, we were on our way, worldly goods piled into the back of the nice shiny white mini bus all to ourselves, with a very courteous and helpful driver, and we joined the motorway system that circles the city. All went well until it became clear that there had been a pile-up down the line, and the traffic came to a complete standstill. The driver told us he was going to get off the motorway and drive through the city. Peter and I exchanged nervous glances as I edged towards the middle of the seat.
Silence and astonishment prevailed as we drove deeper and deeper into what appeared to be the back streets of Mogadishu on a bad day. We stopped at traffic lights and were immediately surrounded by jay-walkers, and I whispered to Peter that I hoped the back door was locked wherein was stowed all our luggage including carry-on cases containing money and passports. He relayed my concern to the driver, and immediately we heard a click. ‘OK now, sir,’ came the reply.
The scenery was fascinating to us – we remembered some street names but couldn’t recognise any of it. Brand-new train systems juxtaposed with high rise buildings smashed and empty. The driver inched his way through chaotic traffic eventually coming through it on what we knew to be the Berea. Hillbrow tower dominated the skyline to our right – the driver saying he would never venture to that part of the city. Relieved to be out the other side, we started to recognise roads, parks and signposts. Coming within a smidgen of our old house we at last found the lovely old homestead, Windmill House, set in a beautiful leafy lane in eclectic Parkhurst where we were to spend our last three nights in South Africa.
