Arrival in Jo'Burg

Travel from London to Johannesburg was at night. It was quiet and dark in the cabin as most people made a gallant effort to sleep. I tried too, but since I was on California time there was little hope.I followed the progress on that little map they provide over Europe, Libya, Congo, Zaire – place I had heard about but could scarcely believe were just below me. All I could see, alas, was darkness. I could have been over an ocean for all I could tell.

Sometime over Botswana things began to come alive. The aroma of breakfast filled the cabin, people began to move and walk around. While eating scambled eggs, british style with a tomato and pale looking sausage I watched a spectacular sunrise. Perhaps all sunrises were like this from airplanes. But I saw it as a welcome to Africa. There were no clouds. The sky was absolute brilliant colors, deep blues giving way to turquoise, oranges and reds. Perhaps this is where the brilliant colors seen in African art and clothes come from.

Johannesburg seemed like a city of trees – not unlike my native Sacramento. One could see signs of the city waking up as we thundered toward the runway.

Customs was painfully slow. My first introduction to SA buraeacracy was not a possitive one. Part of the problem was, no doubt, that I was achingly anxious to see my son, to see is home, to rest somewhere that wasn’t in motion and was out of the range of loud power-driven noises.

Then, suddenly, it was all worth it. Amongst a crowd of people holding signs I saw, peering through the railing, with bright eyes and an anticipatory small, not my son, but my two year old grandson. I felt that strange welling up in my chest that I had never experience prior to his birth. I wanted to cry, but needed to maintain some semblance of dignity. His father was, of course, right behind him.

The ride home was a little disorientating. Its not just that driving is on the left side of the street, but the streets are small and crowded. There is a lot of passing and changing lanes. It is very active driving. There were other clues that I was no longer in Kansas. A sign shouted “This is a high crime area, get off your cell phone and pay attention”. There were no sidewalks, one walked on the edge of the road and hopefully paid close attention. Homes were surrounded with 8 foot walls topped inevitably with electrified fences. The place was a contrast of really quite lovely trees, folliage, well carred for public spaces, and walls, fences, cautions.

Homes tended large and grouped in gated complexes. My son pointed out certain areas, however, where there were no gates, indeed there was often no electricity or plumbing. The homes, if they could be so called, were shacks at best crammed together in what are called “townships” and represented poverty unlike anything one sees in the U.S. This was the type of place where much of the black population lived.

“Here,” Jeff explained, “ you have the first world living right next to the third world”. Indeed, it was true. My naivite leaped out as I asked “Why doesn’t the government do something about this”. My son sighed. Over the next months we would elaborate on that question many times.