Surreal does not begin to adequately
describe the transition back to Joburg, a place I’ve been and never been before. I mean the border crossing and the bus ride
could not have been more routine. Shit,
I’ve been here almost a week, I’m an old Africa hand. And other than a little unpleasantness with
the angry seemingly imperious taxivan driver, the besieged captain of his ship,
life is good. Why someone with black
shoe polish actually polished all four tires of the van I rode on before it
pulled out of its rank. And, indeed, if an
odd/incomprehensible taxivan driver who I pushed back against and didn’t want
to take what I thought were irrational commands of me is all I have to complain
about I’m a very lucky man, which I am.
And how much of that particular encounter was about race and size I have
no idea, but throughout my time thus far in Africa I am the only white person I
see in the venues I frequent, the only white person on the buses I ride, and among
the tallest people I see.
The arrival into Joburg at the old bus
station is exactly as I remember from five days ago - mobs of people throughout
the trash laden downtown, literally hundreds of people standing in block long
lines waiting to be crushed into taxivans and transported home after a day of work
or urban shopping, a bus “station” in a one lane wide alley that dead ends at
the ticket office so that vans going in have to back out into the street -
contributing to already massive traffic snarls - to let vans going out out. Few if any kids other than those in blanket
slings on their mothers’ backs are to be seen, no beggars, everywhere liquor
stores, bars, shoe shops, hair salons, and street vendors selling fresh
vegetables, roasted corn, unappealing meats from charcoal grills, and useless
trinkets that no one buys. As Gil Herron
sings, “Have you heard the word?
Johannesburg!”
That there is virtually no public
transportation in Joburg is ridiculously inefficient, and a few real buses
going up and down the long main thoroughfares could make a huge difference in
traffic, although it might unemploy legions of taxi drivers. Taxi, did you say, you mean those little
private Nissans and Toyotas that have handmade signs in them saying “Taxi,” these
unlicensed standards with no medallions, no taxi car door without the inside
plastic door opening handle broken off, and no horns blowing? How odd that Cairo and Kolkata taxis are
incapable of moving forward without the energy of one hundred car horns blowing,
whereas in South Africa all the horns have apparently been disconnected.
Speaking of disconnected, I wander away
from the massive crowds and traffic around the bus station to get a little maneuvering
room. I have written down on a piece of
paper the address and phone number of the Backpackers’ Ritz Guesthouse where I will
meet my sister and be staying. I show
the address and phone number to a taxi driver who calls the Ritz and gets
general directions to that part of the city, brings one loosely dangling wire
under his dashboard into contact with another loosely hanging wire, the motor
turns over, and were off.
As we move from the inner city through
neighborhoods growing cleaner and overtly nicer I ask the taxi driver about
what we are seeing, about the social class progression reflected by the route
we are on, something suggesting an ascending line on a graph depicting the
local economy, and about the recent history of his country. And instead of sharing with me a sense of the
wonders of freedom and democracy, as my predisposition had expected and hoped
for, he shares with me a sense of frustration, a sense of the helplessness about
his economic and social circumstances, of being trapped in circumstances he does
not have any way of escaping. He says he
is confused by the fact that he believes God put people on this planet to serve
a purpose and he does not see what his purpose can possibly be. He asks me what he can do about it with a
sense of earnestness that evokes in me a desire to answer his question
seriously. And instead of just offering
heartfelt sympathy I think hard about it, searching my years before answering,
after all, if I am willing to accept the presence of guides who appear quite
unbidden in my life to offer me inspiration, confirmation, and direction,
mustn’t I be willing to accept that I too on occasion may serve as guide for
another?
“You must understand and believe that change will
come to you,” I say, “because change is inevitable, and the only issue is
whether you can effect the path you are on in ways that satisfy you. You must believe and accept that you will
change, that this frustration you feel can serve your purpose, that it may help
bring you to a more satisfying place.”
“You do not understand, my friend,” he
tells me, “the economy is terrible, there are no jobs, there is no way out for
me. This is not America, my friend, it
is South Africa, and I am not a white man, I am Black.”
“Well, of course, that is true,” I
acknowledge, laughing inside myself at a vision of Byron Katie appearing and
asking him who he would be without his thoughts, and if the thoughts he is thinking
are really true, and who he would be if the opposite were true. But Katie doesn’t appear, it is only Bruce
inside his car, and I know so little.
“What is real is what you believe to be
real,” I tell him, consciously afraid I am being simply saccharine with him. “If you really
believe you have a purpose let your purpose manifest itself, let these feelings
serve to bring you to where and what you most deeply want to be. Serve your children as a good father. Love yourself and your life.” I might as well be singing, "Don't worry. Be happy."
I think about this exchange, about how
empty it must seem, about my desire to alleviate suffering and be of use. I think about the fact that today is my dead
father’s ninety-eighth birthday. I
remember what I believe to have been his mostly useless(?) advice when I
expressed unhappiness and despair, his telling me not to think the thoughts I
was thinking, to not dwell in the negative, to think positively, to believe I
could be whatever I wanted to be, to know that it was up to me whether I saw
the cup as half empty or half full. I
believed then that his guidance in these realms was useless. I wonder if there is any difference in what
he said and I say. I want to believe
there is, but I doubt it.
The Backpackers’ Ritz Guesthouse, a former mansion with a swimming pool, rooms in the servants quarters, and free condoms in the lobby reading "Get it on before you get it in," is in
the S.A. equivalent of Beverly Hills. The houses are huge. Female joggers in halter-tops and shorts run
freely through the tree lined streets.
There are white people … everywhere!
There are shopping malls with high-end London shops - Pink, Burberry, Versace - lovely restaurants filled
with mostly white people, bookstores, a Seattle’s Best coffee shop, jewelry stores, crate
and barrel equivalents, amazing bakeries. Parking garages filled with Mercedes and BMWs. You could easily imagine you were in Roslyn, Long Island. The malls are filled with glass windowed
stores, fancy displays, lovely upscale restaurants, high-end bookstores, bright
lights, Christmas displays. Even Christmas music. It looks
like any mall in Westchester, populated by people who would seem quite at home
if transplanted there. It’s the Hyde
Park and Rosebank neighborhoods of Johannesburg, and as real as the dirt-poor
farmer in Lesotho is real. Sometimes I
still shock myself with my ignorance and naiveté.
... servants quarters - now guest rooms - at the ritz ...
