Loving and leaving Johannesburg

The local news is seldom good, but Johannesburg is still a place that can capture your heart.

This is another beautiful Johannesburg day. The sky is its typical deep blue, and the sun hits my cheek through the car window as I drive out of my house. This has been my home for the past four years, but the city’s distinctive skyline as I drive down the hill of my leafy neighbourhood still takes my breath away. I left rainy days in London for sunshine and married life.

Then I switch on the radio. A motorist has shot a 12-year-old boy who smashed his car window to grab a mobile phone. A witness says the driver pulled a gun and shot in the air as the kid was running off; the young thief froze and dropped the phone. But the enraged driver shot him in cold blood, killing him instantly, and sped off. Violent crime is turning people into vigilantes or terrified victims. A few days ago, the victim was an 18-month-old girl who died of her injuries after two teenagers raped her. Today’s ration of news hits me harder than usual. I pull over and cry.

I’ve learnt to cope with the threat of violence. I refuse to live in fear. I have adjusted my life—and my psyche—to feel safe in spite of the circumstances. And the circumstances need some getting used to. My husband has been held up at gunpoint twice since I moved here; a university friend of his was shot dead in his car for no apparent reason, while waiting for his son to come out of football practice; most people I know have been victims of crime.

So I have dusted off old habits first honed in Washington, DC, which was America’s crime capital when I lived there, and developed new ones. I have defined a space that feels safe, move freely within it and don’t cross the mental boundaries I have erected. I walk alone only in crowded streets, and drive everywhere else; luckily, Johannesburg is a sprawling city where strolling is hardly an option anyway. I have grown eyes in the back of my head and don’t question my gut feeling. I scan the street and check my rear-view mirror before driving into my garage (most hijackings happen when people get home). I sleep in a locked bedroom with the house alarm on. I have convinced myself that this constant state of hyper-vigilance keeps me safe. So far it has, or maybe I’ve just been lucky. It has become second nature, something I no longer think about. I only notice how high my guard is when I go to safer places and let it drop. But I manage to live with no fear.

Like the minority of South Africans who can afford it, I live in a fortified haven. Lush vegetation hides the electric fence, and high walls and a thick metal gate shield us from the outside world. Perched on a ridge, I often sit on my veranda, admiring the expansive view. Trees fill the space all the way to the horizon, and only the faint buzz of invisible traffic at rush hour reminds me that this is a busy city. Someone once told me Johannesburg was the largest man-made forest in the world, and seen from my garden, I can believe it. From here, all is peaceful.

Life here is an emotional rollercoaster. The country’s dark sides are matched by an equal amount of warmth and kindness. I was shocked by the xenophobic violence that rocked Johannesburg a few months ago, only to be amazed a few days later by the mobilisation of ordinary people to help victims cope. I must have caught the local virus, which makes so many people waver between the darkest of despairs and giddy hope when it comes to their country’s future. On good days I find it exhilarating, on bad ones just exhausting. But it is never dull.

In spite of all this, Johannesburg feels more like home than any of the many places where I’ve spent my adult life. My love for the city runs deep. The fact that my husband is South African explains some of it, but hardly all. I would never trade Jozi, as it is fondly known, for the scenic beauty of Cape Town, which to me is a European city of grim winters. Like the gold on which the city was built, Johannesburg’s treasures take a bit of digging out.

After the polite reserve of Londoners and an old European city set in its ways, Jozi has been a breath of fresh air. People have opened their homes and hearts to me, and I feel at ease with their laid-back, no-nonsense attitude. Their warmth matches the perfect weather. Every day I feel the energy and exuberance of a young city freeing itself from a difficult past. Very much like its central business district, Johannesburg is regenerating and reinventing itself. And I’m enjoying being here while it happens.

It saddens me that most visitors equate Johannesburg with the soulless malls and office buildings of the northern neighbourhood of Sandton. This is part of Johannesburg but, to me, it is no more the real Jozi than the sprawling faux-Tuscan suburbs with their over-the-top birthday parties for spoilt toddlers.

Most people who don’t know Johannesburg look at me quizzically when I tell them about all the things I love about my life here. That’s because they’ve never strolled the sidewalks of Melville or Parkhurst on a warm summer night, mingling with easy-going crowds that spill out of the bars and restaurants. They have never felt the heart of Africa beating while negotiating prices in the aisles of the African craft market in Rosebank or walking the streets of Yeoville, where immigrants from Senegal rub shoulders with those from the Congo or Cameroon.

They’ve never laughed or cried at the Market Theatre, a beacon of cultural resistance to the apartheid regime, watching local productions mocking or decrying the idiosyncrasies of the New South Africa with the same bite. They haven’t listened to the heart-wrenching music composed around testimonies of the Truth and Reconciliation Commission that laid bare the crimes of apartheid and the fight against it. They’ve never sipped white wine at galleries showing William Kentridge’s latest extraordinary artwork or listened to David Goldblatt discuss his photographs, which to me capture the spirit of a whole nation.

Neither have they strolled around Zoo Lake on a lazy Sunday, tasted coffees from all over Africa or tried on local designer clothes at 44 Stanley. Or relaxed watching glass-blowers patiently shape vases and lamps in the workshop that opened down the hill from where I live. They haven’t raced around the city with 30,000 other cyclists, cheered by supporters picnicking by the side of the road. They did not dance or sing with all of us, black and white, rich and poor, when South Africa won the rugby World Cup and the bid to host the football one. In short, they’ve just never touched the spirit of Jozi.

I have collected many precious memories here. I got married in Soweto a few years ago. While we waited for the proceedings to start, I examined the poster warning me about AIDS, next to the calendar advertising funeral services pinned to the wall of the marriage office. The marriage officer sang and danced his way through the administrative formalities. He stopped in mid-chorus when told I wished to keep my maiden name. Barely recovering from his shock, he tried to convince me—unsuccessfully—to reconsider. My husband and I then celebrated over breakfast at the local shebeen (tavern) with the bright winter sun warming our backs.

My memories stretch farther afield, too, because Johannesburg is the hub of the whole of southern Africa, only a short plane hop away from its many wonders. I’ve dodged hippos while canoeing on the Zambezi River, and camped amongst elephants. The roar of the Victoria Falls is available to me at weekends. I’ve swum with dolphins and sharks in Mozambique, and visited secluded Himba tribes in the Namibian desert. I’ve also travelled South Africa’s many country roads and marvelled at the beauty of the country and the hospitality of its people.

Yet political uncertainties, power blackouts and, need I say it, crime, are once again feeding a wave of emigration. Friends deeply committed to the New South Africa are leaving the country, disheartened. I watch them agonise over their decision, as they leave behind their friends and family, memories and a country that lives in their blood. My husband, who for so long maintained an unshakeable optimism, has become one of them.

In a few months, we’ll be leaving for New York City. When the time comes for me to pack my bags, part of me will be relieved and excited. But I know I will also be leaving a corner of my heart in Johannesburg.

By Caroline Lambert