I write as I recline in a bed situated in a bedroom ensconced neatly among the walls of a beautiful home in the suburbs of Johannesburg, South Africa. Tonight, I am living in fashion. Although I am missing my lovely space heater, this house, with its white walls and tall glass windows, is more than enough to keep me happy.
My bed, tonight, is larger than a cot. In fact, it’s the same sized bed as my own at home. But more comfortable. And with royal purple and scarlet bedding to match the long drapes that hide a balcony and large window from my view at night.
The house I am in is beautiful, by any standards of any country. It prides itself with unprotected windows and tall, white walls – very modern and modular in its scheme. The balconies outside remind citizens trapped in winter that a fresh spring and summer await them, where the nights are warm and inviting and life is good and gorgeous in South Africa.
My hosts are wonderful people – some of the nicest I’ve ever met. Christine, a friend of a friend’s, invited me to spend the weekend with her and her family in Jo’burg. She studied in the U.S. and just graduated at the end of last year. Now she’s back in her home city, and she has been the gracious tour guide for several Americans since her return.
Their accents are rather British, with a twist on certain vowels and “r” sounds. I love it, and I often in my head repeat what they say – I’m trying desperately to pick up the accent. When she talks with her brother or the rest of her friends in Afrikaans, it sounds like the language of elves with its heavy, throaty hocks and its rough, rolled “r’s”. It is far from ugly (not like German – and I can say that because my own language is Germanic. Although, maybe so is Dutch?) – rather, it’s elfish, as I said, mysterious in that the gestures and intonations that accompany it are so much like English. Listening to them speak in Afrikaans is like listening to Sims talk perfectly understandable but totally incomprehensible English. You can’t really understand this until you hear and see it spoken.
It’s 2 a.m. my time now, so I think I’ll go off to bed.
~|~
This story of Johannesburg is a different story from that of Pretoria. It’s told in a different language and by a different race. Pretoria is the home of a predominantly black population. And in Johannesburg, it’s inevitably the same; however, there are far more whiteys visible here.
We drove into Johannesburg from Pretoria, and I witnessed the transformation that has become blasé to those who make the trek routinely. The highway connecting the two cities is the threshold between the two worlds of a dualist society. Where I live in Pretoria, the buildings hardly exceed two stories – they are mostly residential areas, schools, local shops and restaurants. It’s dirtier, grittier, realer – closer to the Africa you would imagine.
But as you drive into the thriving city of Johannesburg, the buildings are all grown up – corporate offices penetrate the horizon. Once you enter the city, you could be in any city in America or in Europe – everything is gilded with shiny glass layers and contemporary lighting. Old things are meant to look old, and new things are meant to look untouchable – just as they do in any important city.
Christine’s brother, whose name is Herman (pronounced Errmon with rolled “r’s”), Christine and I convened at a trendy lounge restaurant called Turtle Creek. It’s the only building I’ve been into that was warm. I sat directly in front of the fire once we relocated from bar stools to a dining table.
Turtle Creek is where several of Herman’s church friends go for drinks, laughs and conversation each Friday after work. They all come clad in their casual business attire – ties and oxfords, pleated pants, sweaters and scarves. They are all in the latter half of their twenties, have a few years out of college, and are making it in the corporate world of South Africa.
(I am only an observer. I witness everything – every place, every moment, every person – through all of your eyes. I don’t miss a thing, so later I can come and write it all down and show you in words what I am seeing for you.)
So I am sitting among the Afrikaans language, the loud laughter and the dim firelight. I’m in a movie – everyone is beautiful, flawless really, like shining plastic people straight out of a Hollywood film. I can’t get over how pretty everyone is, each vaguely resembling one of our famous actors and actresses. What film did she star in, I just can’t remember? They don’t have worries to worry about – they have the black waiter bringing them another bottle when their own is finished. Life is so different among them: the merriment, the white and gleaming teeth, the perfectly sculpted hair and faces. They’re talking about the funny thing that happened in the office the other day, or the joke someone told at the bar last Friday – yeah, the one they’re still talking about a week later.
I’m sitting around the Sims of South Africa. They are enthralling – they’re just like me, they’re just like us! Replicas of the same American story, right here in Johannesburg.
I can’t pronounce any of their names. I won’t even try to spell them. People keep on coming in and sitting around the table, ordering a drink and joining the ranks of the laughing party. I’m Brooke – I’m sorry, what? – Brooke. – Oh, okay! Hello, Bruk (or sometimes Brroooooke). Nice to meet you! – Hi, it’s nice to meet you, too. – And vhere are you from, Bruk/Brroooooke? – Oh, I’m from the U.S. – Ohhhh, how lovely! And what are you doing in South Africa?
They’re all very kind and some very interested. Smiles never leave their faces, and my face is now showing signs of wrinkles from smiling back all night. For hours we sit and laugh at life and all the silly things in it.
~|~
White people in Johannesburg are like South Tulsans. They are great people – wonderful people. They’ve got capitalism on their side; they’ve used their resources to make their own way in life. They have good jobs and nice homes. They volunteer, go to church –do mission work (and for Jo’burgians it’s only a few hours away). They understand that they are privileged and that not everyone is as fortunate as they are, and so they dedicate their time to those less fortunate. They organize charity events and other missions. Just like we in the U.S. do for the less fortunate in our society and abroad.
But just as we do, these white Johannesburg people go home to nice houses with concrete walls and fully-stocked kitchens. They have warm water and cold water, coffee makers and nice TVs. We all have beds to sleep in at night and blankets to warm us in them. Our problems are not of the worst kind: We have all of our basic needs.
The people outside the gated neighborhoods in which the white population sleeps soundly at night live another life with a radically different story that is easy to forget. It’s easy to forget if you’re white – at least for a little while. Life has to go on without the perpetual concern over how the outsiders are doing. The whites in this city have to keep living their own lives, and we in America have to keep living ours, too.
It’s so strange to acknowledge the things that separate us from one another – all over the world: our race, our religion, our wealth, our politics. And some, because these things are in their favor, are safe at night and well-fed in the day. Some are stealing, begging, hungry and dying.
~|~
I don’t ever – for any amount of time in my life – want to forget the outsiders.
Amazing
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