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Sunrise in Johannesburg, blazing a brighter red than I can recall seeing before. The orb seems unnaturally huge; burning my retina as it flashes through the thick canopy of leaves covering the largest manmade park in the world.
I’m looking out over the Koppies (“small hill” in Afrikaans) at one of Joburg’s most spectacular views, from Melville suburb’s highest point. Albeit, from behind a laptop. I’ve got a second coffee on the go at Pablo Guest House while attempting to carve out an itinerary for this last-minute jaunt. I’d jumped on a plane from Cape Town with Ashlee, a friend who grew up here. Her father lives in a looming school house stuffed with antiques, which she has the grand job of sorting through and selling on.
“Jozi’s not the sort of place to turn up alone, without a plan.” She’d alluded to the ubiquitous stories of the city’s dangers, all the while warmly insisting I’d love it. Don’t walk alone at night, don’t carry expensive items, stay alert and avoid certain areas, came the advice. Nothing I don’t already follow.
Fizzing nightlife, stunning nature, world-class food, seminal history, booming music, baking sunshine, thick smog…and the small matter of the origin of man. Just about thirty miles northwest of Joburg is the Cradle of Humankind and the fascinating Bolt’s Farm, where the earliest primate was discovered. I’d needed little convincing to tag along.
But I resolve to suspend my delusions early on. I’m never going to taste, see and do everything I want to in one weekend. So I sit back and let the experts lead the way. We spend the morning pondering handmade creations in Maboneng’s art galleries and vintage clothing stores before the Westcliff, a Four Seasons Hotel, swoops in with a nifty idea.
Their program of expertly curated experiences (and kind offer of an overnight stay) piques my interest. This land is laden with cultural gold (and literal gold, once producing 40 percent of the world’s bounty), but it’s daunting to navigate as a newbie.
We take their shuttle to the Apartheid Museum, number one on my must-do list. The seven hectare space pulls together video footage, photographs, text panels and artifacts illustrating the events and human stories of racial segregation. We emerge three hours later, horrified and humbled, but grateful for this chance to learn.
One feels bolstered by the incredible efforts of the artists, curators, filmmakers, historians and designers, helping visitors understand South Africa’s tumultuous history. Everyone we meet wants to share the magic of their multifaceted home, too long overshadowed by inequality.
We sink into cloud-like pillows back at the hotel, emotionally drained. A huge night out at ToyToy, the city’s infamous techno party where Ashlee’s old school friends will DJ, awaits. I delete “sleep” from the schedule altogether. I’m determined to see every side of this city.
The next day, now physically drained, we mainline coffee and fruit at the sumptuous hotel breakfast teetering over the treetops. We’re taken to Soweto (the South Western Township), where Nelson Mandela’s house still stands, its red brick walls ridden with bullet holes and scorched by Molotov cocktails. The president lived here on and off for fourteen years, just down the road from Desmond Tutu. Vilakazi Street is the only street in the world where two Nobel Peace Prize laureates once lived.
We read plaques and pore over memorabilia before sinking thick pints of local Soweto Gold and sweating over impossibly hot curry at Sakhumzi restaurant. Intense hangovers are blamed for a lack of adventurousness at the buffet: my first taste of chicken feet will not be today.
Joburg and Soweto are inextricably linked to South Africa’s struggles for democracy and freedom — themes that stay top of mind even as a brief visitor. It was here that Mandela started out as an anti-apartheid activist, and where he settled after being released from prison on Robben Island. We drop by the plush Saxon Hotel for a drink on the way home; perched on the tree-lined suburb of Sandton, it’s where Long Walk to Freedom is said to have been finished off.
Back at the hotel, we take a dip in the pool then decompress in the sauna, feeling pensive and beyond grateful to enjoy such luxury. Then we venture to Marble restaurant in art and food hub Rosebank for a sunset sitting. That huge red orb is no less bright on its descent, distracting us from the menu of woodfired sirloin, lamb cutlets, charred leeks and fire-grilled linefish.
Celebrity chef David Higgs pulls up a chair to explain his menu, and we dig into his recommendation of Silent Valley Waygu. He’s eager to show off his hometown. “How long are you here? I’ve tons to show you. Downtown Jozi is special.”
“We leave tomorrow,” I sigh, not ready to go.
On the streets outside and the tables around us, the atmosphere feels heady, heaving with possibilities. Everyone’s hustling, in all directions. Johannesburg’s got it all, if you want it, and the night can take you anywhere. Ours takes us, finally, back to bed. There’s more gold to be discovered, of that I’m sure, but it’ll have to wait until next time.
