Jo'burg to Pretoria (South Africa 2)

(Originally written November 2008)

I’ve been lost many times in my life. Mostly in Reading, actually, but that needn’t detain us. It’s usually either on the way to some important interview or late at night in an unfamiliar city. Truth be told, there are times in France when it’s been intriguing to be lost, because just around the next corner there’s often a gem of a village that speeding tourists will never reach. Lost isn’t a problem for this slow-witted traveller, as experience tells me that, sooner or later, I’ll find a garage, and garages sell maps. I usually buy one, and once the transaction is concluded, I simply enquire “And now can you show me where I am?” I can do lost quite well.

I’ve never been lost in an entire continent, though.

I’m not really lost, of course; I’m at Johannesburg Airport, and I need to be in Pretoria, which is quite close – or, as it occurs to me, quite close when viewed on a small map. There are a few Avis drivers waiting in the Arrivals Hall, and I approach them to see if they can offer advice. They’re full of concern, which airline did I fly with? Virgin? And Upper Class? But then Avis should provide a car, and one driver insists on phoning the office. Having proved that no booking was made, he suggests that my only option is a taxi. Well, is there a train station? No, trains haven’t made it as far as the airport yet, but don’t worry, there are plenty of taxis, follow me, sir, I will find a good one. Yes, but how much will it cost? I only have – cripes, I’ve forgotten how many Rands I’ve got… pulling the wad of cash from my pocket (in retrospect, not the safest thing to do in an African airport) I fan the notes out. Look, I’ve only got this much. That’ll be plenty, sir, please follow me…

Faced with no other options, I walk out to the street, where my adviser has already found a cab, briefed the driver and is ready to put my luggage in the boot. Basic safety rules force themselves into my head, yes, this is a cab from a proper taxi company, it has a sign on its roof, so I get in and hand the driver the booking details for my hotel in Pretoria. Yes, he can find it.

We drive out of the airport and onto a motorway. So how far is it to Pretoria? Not far, only 45 Km or so. As far as it is possible to do so, I relax and try to enjoy the ride. I boot up my phone and am impressed by T-Mobile’s international coverage – in a short time, connection to some local network has been achieved, and I have a text message informing me that calls will cost £1.40 a minute. I add “Local SIM card” to my mental shopping list, recalling that my pal Chris often phones me from his home in India for 8p a minute.

So this is South Africa, then. I hate to say it, but it doesn’t look that different to England. Maybe fewer buildings, and what soil I can see is a distinct shade of red, there’s the odd palm tree and more black people, but that’s it, really. We could be driving down any motorway back home on an early summer day, because it’s no more than warm outside. The South African member of our team, Rashina, has warned us to bring summer clothes, T-shirts and shorts, “Maybe one sweatshirt, for the odd night when it gets cooler.” I hope she’s right, because the current temperature is 18C, just into the fringes of T-shirt weather, and the sky is overcast.

Around an hour later, we arrive at The Courtyard, my home for the next six weeks. The cab fare is 566 Rand, so I pass over 600 and tell the driver to keep the change, but give us a receipt, eh, because I’m going to be shouting at someone soon, and it always helps to have a receipt to bang down on the table when making a particularly damning point. Paying the cab fare, though, leaves me with less than 100 Rand, or about six quid, so lunch might have to be chosen carefully.

The Courtyard Hotel advertises itself as “more than a hotel”, because rooms have cooking facilities, enabling guests to cater for themselves. Our team members have already planned to cook a few meals for each other while we’re here, taking advantage of the produce that isn’t readily available back in Glasgow. Indeed, it was only when considering the weight allowance that I reluctantly removed a comprehensive cookbook from my luggage.

The cooking facilities in my room amount to a cupboard containing a sink, a fridge, a few items of crockery and cutlery, a kettle and a small microwave. So I won’t be grilling any lobsters, then. And no, the hotel doesn’t have a restaurant. I enquire at Reception - are there restaurants nearby? Yes, indeed, but please don’t walk to them, because the streets are not safe after dark. (I am later to find out that someone was fatally mugged just outside the hotel during the previous week.) Apparently, most guests order food from takeaway places that deliver. Or live off sandwiches, presumably.

I repeat – this is not the welcome to Africa I was hoping for.

Having unpacked and taken a short snooze, I change into jeans and one of the many Fairport T-shirts I’ve brought, grab a book and stroll over to the pool area to meet the rest of the team. My plans to greet them from within the pool, beer in hand, will have to be revised, because the weather hasn’t improved. It’s still only just warm, and if anything, the sky is more overcast. No matter, I can still have a beer.

You know what? I can’t. There’s no bar. As for the pool, it’s not exactly Olympic-sized. In fact, it’s more like an unusually deep ornamental pond. If you could get ten people in it, I’d be surprised, and if anyone actually wanted to swim, nine people would have to get out.

I lower myself into a chair under an awning and wait for the rest of the team. The appointed time of our meeting passes… then, with a gentle rumble of thunder, it begins to rain heavily. I’d love to romanticise that rain, write of the majesty of a tropical storm, lightning playing across the sky, the thunder of sheets of water smacking into dry earth, but in truth, it’s exactly the same as any old English downpour. I put out a hand from under the awning…

It’s not even warm rain.

An hour after we were supposed to meet, half the team roll up. Here’s June from Nepal and Manju from Delhi, chanting in unison a phrase that I will hear very often in the week to come – “Sorry, Mark…” We sit and talk about our respective flying experiences; they’ve flown from Glasgow via Dubai on Emirates, and we wait for Rashina to complete the team. Oh ho, and then the party can get started, I daresay, let’s scout out a friendly bar that we can use as a base for the duration, make friends with the owner, establish drinking preferences that should shortly become “The usual, folks?”, get the lowdown on the best curry in town, hurry up, Rashina, I’m thirsty!

My phone makes a sound like a Chinaman falling downstairs, indicating that a message has been received. “Sorry, Mark, I’ll be with you in 30 minutes…” Fully two hours after the original meeting time, Rashina rolls up in a car borrowed from her father in Johannesburg. Hang on… so she was in Jo’burg this morning, and we can exchange text messages… and she has a car…

We’ve slipped up badly on the communication front, haven’t we?

No matter, we’re all together now, and the rain has stopped, so what about a beer? Anywhere will do, let’s just go to the local beer-selling area, find a nice place, try a glass or two and if we like the place, commence friendly overtures. No? Why not?

Because June never drinks, Manju rarely drinks, Rashina isn’t that keen, and all three would rather go shopping, that’s why. A yawning pit of horror opens in front of me, but I try to ignore it and persuade them that establishing a base camp is probably the most vital item on our opening agenda. In fact, establishing supply lines in general has to be our priority, doesn’t it? (As I have previously noted, many of my fellow contractors are ex-military, and I’m proud to have learned much from them.)

It turns out that their idea of establishing supply lines is slightly different to mine. They, too, have microwaves in their rooms – so they want to buy some microwaveable meals for the week ahead. Surely, though, we’ll be eating out every evening, after all, several people in the office who have stayed at The Courtyard have recommended a bar “just round the corner” that does a T-bone steak, chips and a beer for the equivalent of £3.50. Apparently we won’t. The considered view of three quarters of the South Africa team is that we’ll be staying in on work nights.

It takes me a short time to digest the full facts… that I’m in one of the worlds great wine-producing areas, where game is not only proliferate, but also regularly slapped on barbecues – and I’m in the company of three people who rarely, if ever, drink. Add to that, one is a vegetarian, the other two are nearly so, and all three have a rigorous work ethic. It crosses my mind that my (now ex-) pal, Rob, who put these teams together will probably be saying “And they’ll be telling him, oh, about now!” to his bunch, as they all laugh like drains.

Honestly, I’d rather be in Zimbabwe.

Well, if we’re going shopping, let’s go. I need to change some money, after all. “Oh, sorry, Mark – all the banks are closed. They’ll be open on Monday.” Fine, I’ll starve, I mean how far can six quid go?

Rashina lends me 200 Rand and we leave for the supermarket. Which is closed. That, frankly, puts the tin lid on it, and I make my feelings plain. Tonight, I will dine at a restaurant. Furthermore, I intend to find a shop that sells not only beer, but wine and spirits, too, for tonight is Saturday night, we have no work tomorrow, I have had one hell of a day so far, and I wish to relax in a convivial environment. I do not want to spend the evening in another hotel room, eating a microwaved meal or a tepid burger, while trying to make sense of unfamiliar TV channels. I intend to engage a taxi driver, proffer several Rand, and accomplish these things, using a credit card when necessary.

To my surprise, the rest of the team agree with me. In short order, then, Rashina steers the car to the equivalent of a corner shop, provisioning takes place, and we visit a “Bottle Shop”, where Rashina recommends several varieties of soft drink to Manju and June, whilst urging me to the “Cane Spirit, it’s distilled from sugar cane, it’s a typically South African drink, you must try it.” Thanks, but some wine will be sufficient… oh, I don’t know, though… one should take every opportunity to immerse oneself in the local culture, shove over a couple of bottles.

Back at the hotel, I unpack the laptop, connect it, boot up – and discover that iTunes has encountered a problem. It can’t find any music. If Edvard Munch were to pass by at this point, he’d tear up “The Scream” and start again from scratch.

Having spent far too long establishing that the iTunes problem will require the reloading of 32,000 tracks, one at a time, it’s a bathed, changed, but gloomy Babba who rejoins the team for dinner. “We’ll go to Mimmo’s, it’s a popular place” says Rashina, as she drives us to Hatfield, a nearby shopping centre. Parking the car is a little different to the UK, though. As soon as we slow down to look for a roadside parking space, young men run out into the road and wave to us. Are they so pleased to meet us? No, they are indicating an empty slot, and they are going to look after the car while we dine, in exchange for a rand or two. This is their self-appointed job, their chosen means of earning money. All that they ask is around 7p a time, and I’m soon to learn that for some sections of society here, everything works by means of the “tip”. The person who delivers dinner to the hotel from a takeaway expects 15p or so, nobody fills their own car with petrol, it’s pumped by people who expect 10p, and while they’re doing it, someone else is expertly cleaning the car windows for the same sum, and by golly, they’d love to check your oil, water and tyres for a few pennies extra.

Leaving the car in the hands of our protection squad, we walk to Mimmo’s. The main restaurant area is closed for a function, and goodness, why doesn’t that surprise me? We are shown to an outside table, under a projecting roof to protect patrons from the non-existent sun. (Well, it would be non-existent, it’s night, but you get my drift. Hot, it isn’t.) Mimmo’s is an Italian concern that also does steak, hooray! One of them with chips and peppercorn sauce, then, and bring me a beer, boss. Pray continue to bring me beers until I say “Stop”, or fall over, it’s been that kind of day.

Rashina explains that service in South African restaurants is a little on the slow side, and crikey, she’s not wrong. We wait for a good twenty minutes before the food arrives, and with it, the rain again. It thunders against the roof, torrents pour into the street…

For some months, I have been anticipating a South African summer. The failure of anything approaching “hot” in East Kilbride, the near-continuous showers, the overcast outlook from one day to the next - all has been as nothing to me, because I have told anyone who will listen that “My summer is still to come.”

Welcome to summer in South Africa, then. Sitting in an Italian restaurant, watching rain hurling down, wishing I’d worn the sweatshirt, and drinking bottled lager. Life, frankly, is not good.