I'm standing at the window of the flat in Doornfontein, coffee in hand, but I will be out of here in forty-eight hours. The sun is putting on that highveld show one more time: a cold, pale gold that seems to comb through the winter air, sharpening the edges of every rooftop. Nine degrees out there, maybe ten. The kind of cold that bites before you're awake but feels like a promise by noon.
This is my last full day in Johannesburg, and I'm not going to spend it packing. I got the boxes done ages ago, the apartment sorted, the paperwork filed. Today is for the city itself, for closing the loop on the first chapter of two years on the road.
I had to break my own rule this morning. I was so determined to tick off every last thing on the list that I nearly missed the point of the place. Then, at about nine, I caught a whiff of smoke from a neighbour's yard, and I knew exactly what I need to do today: a proper braai. A farewell of fire and meat, and one last long walk through the streets I've been sleeping in.
So I've got a plan, but it's a loose one. First, a late breakfast at a place called Salvation Cafe at 44 Stanley. It's a little enclave in a converted factory, all courtyards and small studios. I pay about 46 rand for a cappuccino, which feels like a steal for a cafe that good, and I sit there in the sun and watch the city get its act together. The light is already doing that trick where everything looks like it's been shot on film.
From there, I want to tuck into the northern suburbs one last time. I take the Gautrain from Park Station up to Rosebank. The card is still loaded, and one more ride costs me about 25 or 30 rand. It's the fastest way across a city this size, and I'll never stop being a little amazed that I can be in the middle of the city one minute and in a leafy northern suburb six minutes later. The train slides through the gold of the morning like a knife.
Rosebank on a late winter morning is a different world from Doornfontein. Cleaner, quieter, with the mall rising up like a monument. I'm not here for the mall though. I'm here for the African Craft Market, which sets up in the open air around the mall's piazza. It's a proper hive of carving, weaving, painting, all the colours of the continent. I pick up a small beadwork piece for my mother, and I ask a stallholder about her journey from KwaZulu-Natal to Joburg. She tells me she's been here for twenty-two years, and she says the city has a way of holding you. I know exactly what she means.
But the braai is calling. I head back towards the centre, to a place I've been told about, that I've been saving for last. A spot called Jozi Gold Brewing Company. It's a brewery and a grill, in a converted warehouse, the kind of place that looks like it was built for exactly this purpose. I walk in at just before one, and the smell hits me like a wall: wood smoke, sizzling fat, a hint of yeast from the vats at the back.
I order a plate of lamb chops. That, with a side of something green, sets me back about 180 rand, and it is the best money I've spent in this city. The meat is charred on the outside, pink in the middle, and it comes with a sauce that has just a whisper of heat. I have a local craft lager to go with it, and I sit there for a long time, just watching the flames dance behind the glass. This, I think, is the whole point of the country, distilled into a single lunch.
The beer gets me thinking. The road south, the one I'll be on from tomorrow, is a straight line of tarmac through the Karoo. I've been planning this for weeks, and I'm still not sure I've got the full measure of it. The mountain spine of the country, from the frosty highveld down to the subtropical Wild Coast, with the winter thaw chasing me all the way. But it all starts with just one turn of the wheel.
Before I go, though, I want to do two practical things, and I want to do them properly, like a resident, not a tourist. The first is to check the numbers. I know what this month has cost me. Rent in the city centre, about 7,800 rand, which is around 430 dollars for a modest one-bedroom flat. That's the big one, and it's a good touchstone for everything else. A ride on the Rea Vaya bus, 13 to 30 rand for a short trip. A minibus taxi, 15 to 25 rand. A Saturday-night dinner, 380 to 450 rand at a mid-range spot. Coffee, about 46 rand. These are the numbers that make the city work.
The second is to finally put a face to the word ubuntu. It gets thrown around a lot, usually in speeches and tourism brochures, but in two weeks here I've seen it in the way a neighbour offered me a lift, in the way a shopkeeper taught me how to say thank you in Zulu, in the way a complete stranger at the braai told me his life story because we were sharing a table. It's the idea that a person is a person through other people. And it's real. I've felt it.
And then I do the one thing I've been putting off. I take one last walk around Constitution Hill. I've been here twice already, but on a late winter afternoon like this, the place has a particular weight. The prison walls are the colour of ochre, and they hold the last of the sun's heat. I find a small garden outside the court, and I just sit there, watching the flag snap in the wind.
The history is thick in the air. The site where Gandhi was held, where Mandela was held, and where the dream of a just constitution was finally carved into law. I think about the fact that the same country that built those cells is the one that built the court next door. And I think about how far the road really is, even when it's already been travelled.
The sun gets low. The temperature starts to drop, the way it does at 1,700 metres. I can see my breath again. I walk back towards Doornfontein through the early evening, past the glowing windows of Braamfontein, down the main drags where the street vendors are packing up their crates. The city is getting ready for night, and for once the pace feels just right.
I stop and buy a kota from a stall near the station. A quarter loaf of bread, hollowed out and stuffed with chips, a fried egg, a slice of cheese, and a sausage. About 57 rand for the basic one, nearly 92 for the loaded version. I go halfway and get the loaded one, because it's my last night. It's an absurd amount of food, and it is utterly perfect. The woman who sells it to me asks where I'm headed, and when I say the Karoo, she laughs and says, "That's a long a road." I tell her that's the point.
And now I'm standing in the flat again, suitcase half-open on the bed, the city spread out below me. This evening, the sky is that deep, deep blue that comes before the end of winter, and the lights of the city are beginning to glitter. From tomorrow, the road is the Wild Coast, the Cradle of Humankind is behind me, and Soweto is behind me, and Melville is behind me. But the memory of the fire, the smell of the smoke, and the taste of that braaied lamb will stay in the car with me.
Before I close the curtains, I take one last look. Johannesburg is not a beautiful city in the conventional sense. It's rough, and it's honest, and it's got a heart that beats like a drum. It took me in, it gave me a SIM card and a bank account and a street name to call home. And it sent me on my way with a full stomach and a sense of a beginning.
So, that's it for this chapter. Tomorrow, I cross the ridge and drop down towards the Karoo, chasing the winter sun into spring. I have no idea what the Wild Coast will look like in five days, but I know the wheels will be turning, and the radio will be loud, and I still won't be able to shake the feeling that I've only just started to understand this place.
Sawubona, Jozi. It's been real. And for the last time, from the highveld, this is Sipho. I'll talk to you from the road.
Ngiyabonga, Johannesburg. Until next time.