J'aime Beaucoup Johannesburg

Recently, Nonhlanhla and I had the cool experience of travelling to Johannesburg to participate in the Drama For Life Conference in good ol’ Joburg. We arrived there by taxi, by which you might be picturing deluxe and comfortable, but you would be wrong. Instead you should picture a combi, jam-packed with people, blankets, tarps, squawking chickens, Cozy Cozy Mr. Price blankets and babies, for ten hours of rickety-rackety gravel roads. With what I can only define as ‘Afro Gospel House’ pumping over the speakers. There was a woman sitting next to me with her one-and-a-half year old baby bouncing on her lap who went seamlessly from breastfeeding to gnawing on a KFC drumstick. Not that seamlessly though, since the baby threw up all over the cab.


The Conference was nothing short of spectacular. They had thirteen hours a day of programming, including Keynote speakers, Round-table discussions, panel talks, workshops, one-man shows, Spoken Word, and music motifs. We had tea about four times a day, with a smorgasbord of brownies, samosas, sandwiches, sausage bites and croissants. Three meals a day to boot and the whole thing only cost about fifty dollars.

Networking was incredibly fantastic as the people attending this conference were art therapists, clinical psychologists, artistic revolutionaries, drama practitioners, doctors without borders, and Gestalt therapists. There were people from Zimbabwe, Cameroon, Nigeria, the UK, Trinidad and Tobago , Mozambique, one doctor from Canada!, the USA, and Nigeria. I met this really cool guy from Senegal who is a fisherman-cum-political- revolutionary who spent some time in jail due to his beliefs, who now uses Paolo Friere type drama with the locals to education on HIV awareness. He only spoke French, and though my French is butchered and bastardized, somehow between talking to Diol and Dieudonne all the time, it’s coming back in fits and starts. Ironically, they asked me to translate this puppet workshop into French for him, and that was interesting as we got into this three-way contentious discussion with a woman from Holland about the global release of this childrens’ book on HIV/AIDS. Diol was not digging the book (alluding to HIV as a dragon in the bloodstream) and he was letting the Dutch woman know it. It was quite interesting trying to translate that.

Nonhlanhla and I presented on “Socio-drama and HIV/AIDS – Transformational Dialogue Through Group Body Images” (title courtesy of Jenny and Steve); I have to say that after working with sometimes recalcitrant ten-year-olds, doing this workshop for academics was a whole different ball game. The incredible images these people formed with their bodies and the kaleidoscopic discussions that came out of it, took things to a whole new level. It was fascinating peeling back the layers of their human sculptures, and launching off different tangents of discussion. Also, the chair for our session, Tonderai Chinyindiko, may be the most beautiful man I have ever seen in my life. We hung out on the patio with Tonde, and our photographer, Evaristo afterwards; they are very cool artists themselves.

At night, there was always something going on. One incredible performance art piece took place on Constitution Hill at the old Fort Prison. As we toured the cells where such people as Nelson Mandela and Walter Sisulu were incarcerated, various actors performed tortured soliloquies of rape, torture and solitary confinement. The Blacks, Afrikaaners, and ‘Coloureds’ were all represented, as were prison guards and prisoners. It was haunting and wrenching. Two years ago I only read the placards and visited the cells with their shifting ghosts, but to have the stories reenacted was compelling.

I have to mention that we had the privilege of listening to Albie Sachs on one of the panels. He’s a human rights activist and lawyer who defended people charged under racist statutes and repressive security laws. He was placed in solitary confinement without trial for two detention spells, for violating a banning order. He was in exile for awhile, teaching and studying in England and then Mozambique, and in 1988 South African security agents planted a parcel bomb in his car in Maputo. He lost his arm, and the sight in one eye, but never stops to pity himself, and soldiers on in his convictions. He was instrumental is preparing the new democratic Constitution for South Africa and establishing South Africa’s constitutional democracy. He served on the Constitutional Court as a judge, and as he is now retiring, is embarking on a career in documentary film. He said he has to say that out loud to as many people as possible so he’ll be forced to do it. He’s committed to a December deadline for his first film. Imagine how inspirational it was to listen to this man speak.

Another night, there was a Spoken Word competition by the students at Wits Uni. I couldn’t believe the prowess with which these students performed this Poetry Slam, given it’s their second or third language. They can manipulate and break the words, use alliteration, onomatopoeia, interior rhymes, puns, allusions to literature, all with finesse and ease. And their sense of style is so funky and cool, layered plaids and stripes and tipped tweed hats. There was one rep from KZN who did a bilingual rap in Zulu and English. I wish I could have understood it, but the clicking sounded like elves tapdancing on cobblestones. There was also a drag queen, Miss Diversity, who did a piece. Nonhlanhla was cracking me up, she was maybe a bit overwhelmed by the Jo’burg Jive and I think Miss Diversity threw her for a loop. She left right afterwards and missed the Zulu rapper. She also was tittering uncontrollably at the one-man-show “I’m Here” during which the man disrobes to complete nudity. That said, when we’re back doing Forum Theatre in Ingwavuma, she has no problem disrobing to change into exercise gear in front of her male co-workers, so I always tease her by asking her what the difference is and whispering “I’m Here” in her ear.

When we returned to the Backpackers each night after the Conference, Nonhlanhla would go straight to bed, no passing go, no 200 Rand. I would sometimes chat with the other Backpackers and lounge around. Actually, one day Sofia (a German girl) and Gordon (an Aussie) had visited the iAfrica Tower, (broad daylight) and were mugged by a team ‘of four to six’ (their words:P) youths. Gordon managed to wrestle them off cause he’s a tough guy, but Sofia got choked by one of them and he made off with her camera, money, and more importantly her journal. Luckily she had taken out the full memory card from her camera the day before and had her passport back at the ranch. It’s unfortunate that happened to them though as that was her last day in South Africa and it left a bad taste in her mouth. Gordon was supposed to have spent another 2 weeks in South Africa but he changed his ticket and flew out the next day. Xenophobia being what it is, the South Africans say, “Yes, but those were not South Africans who attacked you. They must have been the Zimbabweans!” This tale illustrates why I follow the advice of my South African friend Matt: Travel with the locals, wear a black hoodie, hood up, chin down, hands in pockets,no cell phone, no camera,no bling. And this is why you will see no pictures of Johannesburg from me, only shots of the rurals! If you want to know what Joburg looks like you will have to look it up online.

That said, I do have a couple of local friends in Jo’burg that I was anxious to see. Unfortunately, I couldn’t catch up with Karina, my crazy Jozi journalist friend as she was under deadline from her big bad editor boss. I guess there’s a lot to report on what with the Black Magic Serial Killers, the usual crime, the Strike (which has finally lifted by the way, if only for a 21-day contemplative hiatus), and the ‘what, what’, what’. But I did manage to connect with my friend Eben. Funny story: I met Eben two years ago in Joburg when I first arrived, fresh off the plane. He was holding a sign up for ‘Jane’ and I was looking for my pick-up so we agreed that if his pick-up and my pick-up ditched, I could be his Jane. We got to talking and he is a performance artist/actor/puppeteer/arts practicioner. He gave me his business card, which I found while cleaning out my apartment in July. On a whim, I sent him an SMS not sure he would remember me, but it all worked out and he took me out for a night on the town, showing me all the glitz and glory of Jo’burg, replete with political and geographical history, over cocktails at ‘The Cat’s Pajamas’.

Returning from Jozi, we got a taxi at the Bree Taxi Rank, but the demand to go to Ingwavuma – not so high. The combi goes, when the combi is full. While you’re waiting, you get every kind of vendor rapping the windows selling everything from sweets, and juice, to giant elastic bands (?), airtime, and battery-operated multi-chargers. When I got home, I was dying to get a huge glass of milk and watch ‘How I Met Your Mother’, but wouldn’t you know it, some mentors from eManyeseni used the rondawel in my absence and took off with the keys. You might think there would be a set of extra keys, but you’d be wrong. It took Simon (uBaba Meni) and MKalipi an hour and a half to break me in using machetes, butter knives and some weird wires they twisted off the fence by the road to Spar. So you know the rondawel is (somewhat) secure. Then I realized the fridge was switched off so everything in the fridge was rotten. I had no electricity and no running water. (No milk for you). And that’s how I knew my city life was over!