Seven months later

Neither me nor Nick has posted anything on this blog since I started to work at Ogilvy seven months ago. Does that mean anything in particular? It has been and still is a ride, sometimes rocky sometimes smooth. Nick is writing his book and it's looking very promising. He's written thousands and thousands of words and I can't wait for it to be finished and send it to a publisher. I on the other hand am still discovering the world of South African PR and it's not boring. I work to much, just like I used to in Sweden. I am very much an 'on' or 'off' kind of person. But more importantly we are adjusting to life in South Africa. I am still struggling to get used to traffic in this hectic city, but I get by. This is it for now, friends, will try my best and write more often. Maybe even more intelligent thoughts next time?

Vår i Johannesburg

I morgon börjar jag på mitt nya jobb som Business Director på Ogilvy PR.

Våren har kommit på allvar till Johannesburg och det är soligt varmt på dagarna, uppemot 25-27 grader. Jag har planterat tre lavendelplantor och köpt Sydafrikas nationalfågel, den blå tranan, i pärlor och ståltråd.

Fas 1 av balkongplanteringen. Funderar på om inte en bougainvillea eller ett citronträd är nästa fas.

Home of the affair

Kajsa and I tootled off to the Department of Home Affairs ten days ago for our ”interview” with a department lackey in order to verify and process Kajsa’s application for permanent residence. I use the term "interview" as the process involved noting of the sort. It became a fight for survival against a bureaucratic octopus, that is strangling South Africa’s journey to a brighter future.

The Department of Home Affairs office we visited in Harrison Street reminded me a lot of the South African railways office building I worked in for a short while after leaving school. Ten stories tall, no computers, one photocopying machine, one working lift, large Afrikaners in military style uniforms ( I kid you not. Some of them even seemed to be in charge of stuff), reams of papers and ledgers, wooden benches, plastic seats, and room after room of incompetent, uncaring or just plain angry government officials ( a few managed to tick all boxes).

Not one computer in the permanent residence application office. I was about to say not one person either but we did see three different people so that averages out to about one I suppose.

Everything is written down. It is madness. There is thus no link between the residence and work permit office so one has to give the same documentation twice, hence the copier.

It was two hours into our “interview”, after our second walk down and up four flights of stairs in order to find the lone copier, that Kajsa cracked. I had been looking forward to telling the story of how we met, how excited we were to be back and how keen we were to contribute to a county we left 12 years ago but nobody seemed interested.

I think the catalyst to Kajsa’s rage for that is what it was, came after we were told the permanent residence application would take six-months to process. “What if I want to work, to contribute, and to earn money to survive?” I think it was the empty look from the official, a look that one could see meant she had no concept or understanding of the question that set things off. At one point I honestly suspected that said official might think that white people do not need to work but of course that is crazy talk.

“I want to leave this fucking place. We are going back to Sweden!!” With that we left to wait 30 minutes for a taxi. That’s another thing. Taxis arrive when they can, and charge what they can. Stockholm it aint.

Not that it’s all gone to hell in hand basket. It seems South Africa has realised the importance of harnessing as many of the meagre tax revenues available (5 million registered tax-payers in a country of forty million) Okay I queued for around two hours but got a tax number on the spot. And the office uses the number system familiar to many Swedes. It works. Plus the guy who helped me, Peter, was engaging and helpful. We actually had a chat.

Feel it

The tall thin cop with an automatic rifle strapped across his chest walked towards me with a smile on his face. It was my third police roadblock in as many days and two days to kick-off.

”Can you catch it?” he said, pushing out his right hand and making to catch the air.

“Can you feel it?” he asked rubbing his tummy. He then leaned into the car and still smiling said “Driver’s license please”.

It has been crazy here. This city was crackling on Friday hours before kick-off. Endless streams of VIP’s in siren-blaring convoys filled the roads, helicopters and surveillance aircraft circled overhead and everybody (bar three I reckon) had on a Bafana shirt. Yellow was the colour of the day. It is difficult to explain the palpable sense of hysteria and excitement that enveloped Jozi last Friday. The morning after the opening game and ceremony I was really proud to be a South African and it goes some way to explaining why I spent most of the day drinking steadily. Best opening ceremony ever. Best opening goal ever. Just the best ever.

Yesterday I felt it properly myself. I went to Soccer city with my mum and a couple of friends to watch Holland play Denmark. It was quite something. The Dutch fans outnumbered the Danes by considerable numbers. There is a group of them here who drove through Africa for ten weeks to enjoy the event. Respect. Many of them were dressed in crazy outfits from body-hugging Day-Glo orange to bright orange fishing waders (huh?) The stadium is vast, spacious and comfortable. Beer, I mean Budweiser, was on sale during the game and despite the constant drone of the vuvuzelas a rousing time was had by all. Although it took three hours in traffic to get there (A train journey to the next game is a definite) the stadium cleared in no time and we were home within an hour and a half of the final whistle.

My World Cup has begun and I am very excited for the next few weeks. Anders and Tommy arrive from Stockholm on Thursday lunch-time and I have a feeling things are going to get turned up a notch. We have tickets for six games including Ivory Coast-Brazil and Germany-Ghana. Boo Selekta! I am looking forward to getting out and about at night to meet visiting fans and we have a number of activities lined up including a visit to Hluhluwe Game Reserve. We hired Prospero’s plane for that one. Once in a lifetime is the slogan for this month. World Cup rules apply. Anything goes.

Hands in the air

Last Saturday I went jorling for the first time since we arrived in Jozi a few months back. It’s not like I haven’t been out to various great restaurants and the three bars (it might actually be two) that cater to the hundreds of thousand, dare I say millions of people who live in the northern suburbs but this was new. This was a trip downtown on a Saturday night to the dark heartland of Jozi, the Newtown Precinct.

Actually the precinct itself buzzed with activity when we arrived at Sophiatown (I think, I was a bit dizzy) around 11.00 at night. The precinct is an urban renewal and regeneration project with a fascinating history. After a turbulent history the area is today host to a mix of bars, restaurants, galleries and museums. Mary Fitzgerald square, the precincts centrepiece is also host to a World Cup fan park and I plan to be there for the opening game.

Mental as anything

It was a mate’s birthday and a few of us had spent the initial part of the evening at a place called The Woods for the clubs “dubmental” night. It wasn’t mental it was terrible. Maybe I am getting old but I was raised on classic Jamaican dub where mix masters like King Tubby, Scientist and Scratch Perry dominated. They produced laidback bass-heavy versions with an emphasis on crucial brass sections and re-mixed voice. Modern dub is a cacophony of electronic hail backed up by a gut-crunching bass that seemed to digest my dinner. The venue itself was like a garage with a light bulb. The owners must have pumped all of a grand into the joint. The best thing about it was the cheap drinks.

The small crowd, all white, was made up of the traditional smattering of waifs, students, extroverts, Goths, hustlers and dirty-old men you find in dimly lit clubs posing as alternative. They seemed to be enjoying themselves. After an hour under low decibel tremble/high decibel electronic screech assault we decided to move on down to Newtown proper. Steve and I decided to walk the four-hundred meters or so to the bar Sophiatown. The others pleaded with us to drive, that we were taking our lives in our hands and that we should be very careful.

Hippity hop

Apart from a few homeless people and a couple of car guards clustered around an open fire on the pavement, the streets were empty until we entered Mary Fitzgerald Square. People hustling and bustling between bar and car, street and club. The place was hopping. At one point I was the only whitey in the joint as the crowd sang along to Li’l Wayne’s Lollipop. At some point I battled to the DJ booth and asked for the Dre/Tupac hopper California Love but no luck. I am not saying I recognised every tune but there was some Jay-Z, some Ice-Cube and some whining R&B rubbish.

Idiots

The vibe was relaxed and I was getting the odd flirtatious glance from the girls and a nod or a thumbs up from the guys. Most of the guys anyway. There was a knee-high Rasta who kept on telling me he got my back, but I told him my back was cool. I think he was running a scam where he has mates who cause shit and then he comes to the rescue for a small fee. Then some other guys started harassing the girls in our crowd and things went a bit south. Grabbing them and insisting on a dance, standing all over them and generally acting like assholes. The girls with us are gay and there have been a string of “corrective” rapes in South Africa recently, the most horrific involving the rape and murder of the captain of the South African women’s football team.

The situation got a little unpleasant without getting violent but did leave an unpleasant taste. At least the bouncer seemed interested when I made contact just to test his attitude. I spoke to the girls with us and they were cool. For all that, and the hangover I sported the next morning I am keen to investigate some of the other stuff on show down in Newtown. As with many things here you just have to be on your toes and expect the unexpected and realise that the air of normalcy hides a chasm of chaos.

Ett liv utan knäckebröd

Innan vi reste till Sydafrika tänkte jag att jag skulle skriva små betraktelser var och varannan dag om mitt vardagliga liv i Johannesburg.

Men det har inte varit möjligt. Jag har fullt upp med att uppleva och leva själv. Först nu har jag distans och även om vi har varit här i fyra månader känns det ändå som jag ganska nyligen klev av planet.

Men jag börjar vänja mig, det kan jag berätta. Jag börjar vänja mig vid trafikköer, vägarbeten och tiggare vid varje trafikljus. Jag börjar vänja mig vid ett vänligt kaos vid utgångskassorna i snabbköpet och jag börjar vänja mig vid blanketthysteri och byråkrati.

Uppvärmingen i lägenheten där vi bor är lite skruttig men vi har köpt extra element och extra duntäcken så det går ingen nöd på oss när det blir kallt om nätterna. De element som finns är från 50-talet då huset byggdes.

Varje morgon när vi vaknar är det sol och 15 grader varmt så vi öppnar balkongdörren och lyssnar på fågelsång och trafikbrus.

Jag dricker mitt rooibosté och äter papaya till frukost och saknar inte Pyramidknäcke och keso som jag åt varje morgon i Sverige. Jag badar bubbelbad nästan varje morgon i mitt aldeles egna vackra badrum med inbyggda kranar och fönster.

Jag öppnar inte galleriet förrän klockan 10 om förmiddagarna så jag har tid att både njuta av utsikten från vårt arbetsrum och läsa nyheter på nätet innan jag ger mig iväg hemifrån. Svenskan, DN, BBC och sydafrikanska Mail&Guardian hinner jag scanna innan det är dags att ge sig ut i trafiken.

Mitt nya liv som gallerist

Sedan drygt tre veckor arbetar jag på ett fotogalleri i downtown Johannesburg. Mitt i smeten. Se krysset på flygbilden här intill.

Galleriet heter Bailey Seippel Gallery och ingår i ett nybyggt konstcentrum som heter Arts on Main. Kvarteren är slitna och ganska ruggiga men förhoppningen är att konst, konstnärer och besökare ska bidra till upprustningen av centrala Johannesburg. Den del av Sydafrika som gett hela landet dåligt rykte.

Galleriet specialiserar sig på afrikanskt dokumentärt fotografi från 1950-talet fram till idag. Just nu har vi en utställning med en sydafrikansk fotograf som heter Paul Weinberg som bland annat tog den historiska bilden av när Nelson Mandela röstade för första gången i sitt liv.

Så här glad ser jag ut när jag öppnar galleriet om morgnarna. Jag jobbar varje dag utom måndagar och det är en jämn strid av besökare nästan varje dag.

Gården utanför galleriet är en populär mötesplats. Här kan man äta goda luncher, ta en drink på eftermiddagen eller äta en tallrik gröt på morgonen för elva kronor!



I galleriet säljer vi också affischer med gamla omslag från den legendariska tidningen Drum som gavs ut 1951-1978. Det var en av de få publikationer där svarta fotografer och journalister fick jobba.

Se ett par av omslagen längst ner, ett med Miriam Makeba och ett annat med Winnie Mandela.

Affischerna ges ut i en begränsad och numrerad upplaga och kostar 1 800 rand styck.