In Johannesburg we all look forward to October, a month of exceptional beauty. Flowers burst with pride, the colours and fragrances are intense, even the bees seem okay. And our beautiful Jacarandas start to bloom. We hope. We start talking about them in September. … Continue reading Jacaranda Season
I was admonished recently by someone I admire deeply, for thinking I needed a date to dine out. ‘Go on your own, dammit,’ she told me. ‘Dress up, put on your lipstick and go and have fun.’ I knew she was right but I find … Continue reading Pablo House, Johannesburg
I showed my dad a tote bag today that says “I fucking love Joburg‘ and he laughed and laughed like it was the funniest thing he’d ever seen. But I do love Joburg. Especially my hood. I just walked the streets, took in the beautiful … Continue reading I fucking love Joburg
‘I think you should go left here?’ I said to Frederika. ‘I donno, it’s not really a road is it, maybe we should go back, find the right road?’ ‘Julie did say the road was bad, she didn’t say this bad, ugh take the left, … Continue reading Julie, what were you thinking?
I just want to tell a story about my son who got lost yesterday while driving a little out of Johannesburg. His phone died and he had no clue where he was but he was helped by guys at the BP Garage, then the Shell … Continue reading A story about my Son, Shell, BP, Caltex and Engen.
Last night I was invited to a food tasting and did a terrible job at hiding my Food Imposter Syndrome. I love eating food but I don’t know much about describing it. Plus I cannot tell the difference between cumin and coriander, I find amuse-bouche … Continue reading Lucky Bean, Melville.
Morning Mammie. Morning Madam. Good morning Gogo.
Hey, G’morning, I say, to each person who wanders by me.
It’s early on a Sunday. Melville. There are few people on the streets. It’s chilly but the sun is shining, the magnolias are in bloom, and there just a few empty beer bottles on the pavements.
I turn the corner and walk past Nuno’s, one of my local hang outs. The waitresses are outside, waiting for the owner to open up.
He’s always late. They are always on time. Or maybe they’re just early. They have a long way to travel.
Hey Violet, Morning Violet, Enjoy your coffee Violet.
I wave, I shout from the other side of the road, I say good morning. And I continue on my walk to De La Creme, to get my morning fix.
It’s a ritual. I’ve been known to do it in my pyjamas.
But I do wear nice pyjamas.
I see the old man dressed in blue. He’s the shouter of the neighbourhood. Unbalanced. Mad. A meth drinker. Wrinkled, scarred and always in trouble. He wanders the streets day and night. A lunatic.
Yet there he is, like clockwork, sweeping 7th Street. He sweeps, every morning, starting at 7 am. The shop owners pay him collectively.
It keeps him in meths. And warm.
I pretend I don’t see him. It’s complicated and I find it easier to pretend he isn’t there. I know, I know, it isn’t very nice of me.
I carry on. G’morning, hi, have a groovy Sunday.
There’s the homeless Ethiopian. He sits in the doorway of a charity shop. It may be where he sleeps too. The walls of the shop are pink. Today he’s wearing a pink shirt.
He blends in.
I always say good morning to him. He always gives me a filthy look. I think he too is slightly unbalanced.
Maybe I also am?
I wish I’d bought my camera. There’s a young woman leaning out a window. She’s wearing a magnificent brightly coloured African headdress. And there’s another woman coming out a doorway. She’s opening up, Bread and Roses Bistro, her dreadlocks flying in the wind.
It’s picture perfect.
I get my coffee. Resist the croissants. Have a chat with one of the locals about our kids and how we wish they’d eat more fruit. He buys six fresh out the oven almond croissants.
What the hell, I may as well buy one. Ugh, two. And a baguette.
I walk home, sipping my coffee. I admire the gorgeous clothing through the window of the vintage shop. I’m going to come back and try that little black dress on.
A neighbour stops and gives me a few avocados off her tree. They’re fat and ripe. I promise to drop granadillas off at her later. We talk about the neighbourhood. Our community.
The streets are getting busier now. Cyclists, joggers and a few early morning moms with their babes. The newspaper sellers are out and the car guards have taken up position.
The last person I see before I turn on to my road is Joe. You can tell he was once a good looking man. He has piercing blue eyes, steel grey hair, and a great tan. He’s tanned because he too lives on the streets. I always hear stories about him. He was a writer. A poet. An academic.
Something about Joe has always made me uncomfortable. I don’t know what it is. I think because he could be me. I could be him. He could be any of us.
I usually avoid his stare. This morning I chose not to. I looked him in the eye and said Hi.
He looked at me and lifted one hand to his head. A bit like a salute. Then both hands, palms out, in front of him. One hand towards me, before both hands coming together.
It was a greeting. Sign language.
Sign language for Hello, What is your name?
Oh my gosh.
I had no idea Joe was deaf.
I’m not even sure if his name is Joe.
My dog Scarlet is thirteen. I walk her almost daily at Emmarentia Dam and she’s always a little nervous and a lot unpredictable.
Odd, my friends call her.
Intriguing is what I say.
She never goes near the water. And lately her arthritis has been really bad, leaving me to wonder how much longer she has.
Today we went walking with friends.
And for some insane, crazy, who knows why and I’ll never get it reason, Scarlet plunged head first into the water.
Whoosh splash, she was gone.
Surrounded by ducks, geese and a huge body of cool sparkling water.
It was fabulous, this dog who has never swum before. Whichever way the ducks went, she went too. Swimming like a pro dog Olympic doggy paddle champion of the world.
Unbelievable. Hilarious. Brilliant.
Until we realised she wasn’t coming back.
We were standing on the edge, yelling for her. And she never once turned to look at us. She was a dog on a mission.
Except this old dog was getting deeper, further and more and more distant.
I panicked. She would have a heart attack. She was going to drown. She would disappear under the water and that would be the end.
There was no-one around to help.
‘You’ve gotta go in, Violet,’ said my friend. ‘Go. Go.’
I was hesitant. I’m not a strong swimmer.
But I threw off my clothes. And I plunged in too. It was warm and delicious, except I wasn’t feeling warm or delicious. I was terrified.
I didn’t get anywhere close. She swam left, she swam right, she ducked, she dived, she became one of the bloody ducks.
And she ignored me completely.
I had to turn back or I would’ve got into trouble.
It had been an hour. We yelled some more, one of us naked, one not. And then I threw my clothes back on and ran for help.
I found a couple of cyclists who under normal circumstances I may have flirted with, except I hate cyclists. Now, tears streaming down my face, I begged them to rescue my dog.
Except she did not want to be rescued. She was having the swim of her life.
And then, just like that, TWO HOURS LATER, she swam in. Shook herself off, grinned, I swear she grinned, jumped into my arms, licked me all over and we went back home.
I thought she would die from exhaustion in the afternoon. I thought her heart would just stop beating while she slept.
She hasn’t died. She doesn’t even seem tired. She’s happy and content and clearly has a doggy bucket list of things she wants to do.
I’m the one who’s shattered.
But if I think about it, it was very nice skinny dipping in Johannesburg.
And so we’re planning another activity.
Today the ducks in Emmarentia, tomorrow the dolphins in Mozambique. Who knows what adventure awaits.
Scarlet. She is an intriguing dog.
- with thanks to Lesley Cowling for the doggie bucket list inspiration.