When you live in Joburg, you can only be from one of four places: The South, the North, the West or the East. My friends from Durbs and Cape Town constantly marvel at the detachment and ease with which we segregate ourselves from one another. “The South…WHERE in the bloody South?!” It doesn’t matter WHERE in the bloody South, it’s still the South. Hey, I don’t make the rules, I just live here man. The South is known as the Dirty South; Jozi’s answer to America’s inner city projects, our own Mitchell’s plane. Barefoot laities with dirty cheeks and dirtier mouths abound…fences are broke and the residents are even broker. You don’t leave your house after 5, and when you do venture out, even in broad daylight, you make damn sure to take your shambok with you. White trash is the name of the game, and these people play to fucking win.
The North is where the cool kids hang out, the crème de la creame of Egoli’s hipsters and trendys...high society for the new century. Sunday afternoons are for sitting outside Fratelli’s with an unnecessarily large (and very, very tasty) jug of mojitos all to yourself. Occasionally pulling on their cigarettes and shifting position when a specimen of the opposite sex happens by to show off their oh so trendy, but oh so unique designer disheveled outfits, they live their lives in the sun. “Dude, that Dirty Dirty party at Alex (The Alexander Theatre) was sick hey…Haezer is the sex.” Greenside and Parkhurst are Manhattan to those who stalk through the streets of Africa’s concrete jungles.
To be totally honest, I know shit all about the West. Except that I never have any reason to go there…so I don’t.
That brings us to the East. The East could be compared to the Valley. That’s where I’m from…where I know the street names and the garage shops and corner cafes: The Vale, or Edenvale…the valley of Eden. HA. “YOH, scale from the Vale dude!” Is the standard response provoked by mention of the place I lived 3 years ago when I moved here from Cape Town, a refugee from an angry landlord, a dented garage door and an embarrassed ex boyfriend. I work for a soul destroying music corporation located in what was supposed to be the largest shopping mall in the entire Southern hemisphere. Se GAT. The hill that Greenstone shopping centre squats upon, like a brown, pot bellied gargoyle leering out at the avenues, makes for some pretty rad sunset viewing. The skyscrapers in what we call Town begin to blend in with the darkening sky, like the colours in the photographs you have of your Ouma and Oupa that have faded to match each others tones. As all the little worker ants scurry from office to car, from car to notorious Jozi traffic, from traffic back to suburbia, and lock their gates behind them…things begin to change. Sardine tin taxis get begin to disappear from the roads, replaced by Corsas and Golfs with dice hanging from their rearviews and stickers on their boots. These are the carriages that ferry us through the twilight and into the night, to our balls and banquets. The street lights in the avenues flicker back to life after their days rest, like little rows of Christmas lights across the hills.
As those lights blink on, and the Sun gets tired of watching the time go by, life in Joburg shifts gears, speeding up and slowing down at the same time. The faint buzz of the neon lights and the orange night sky are a playground of a different kind. Night time is permissive here; glazed eyes, runny noses and slurred words are easily overlooked or passed by when volumes up loud on the car radio. Less skirt and more skin doesn’t turn heads like it would under the sun’s watchful eye. The orange glow in the sky gets into your blood. You breathe it in with your smoke; swallow it down with your black label. It sticks to you like drizzle on a wool jersey, and we all like the way it feels. The Metros and the dealers are all on the lookout for a quick buck, and everyone’s paying to party.
