I do my best thinking while driving. I drive a Fiat Panda.

Archive for the tag “Joburg”

Rock stars and superheroes: cut from the same cloth?

On one of my recent trips in the Panda, I announced to the other occupants of the car, rather grandly and with some pleasure, that I was going to see Bruce Springsteen performing live in Joburg.


Bruce Springsteen


However, as I made the announcement to my two children, currently aged 6 and 8, it was not received with the awed admiration I’d been expecting.

“Who is Bruce Springsteen?” said Liam baldly.

I had not quite foreseen this, but made a quick recovery.

“Bruce Springsteen is a world famous ROCK STAR!” I informed him, reverently.

His response was deflating as he said with childish indifference: “Huh. Well, IIII haven’t heard of him!”

“That is because you are still young,” I replied, somewhat coldly. “If you were a bit older you would know exactly who Bruce Springsteen is. He is a LEGEND! And my lovely friends Anne and Mel bought me a ticket to surprise me, because we all used to listen to him when we were young. I mean younger.”

“Yes,” interjected Matthew, ever-supportive of his big brother, “but he’s not a SUPERHERO.”

This lack of respect for he who is also known as The Boss was starting to grate a little.

“There are many people in this world,” I responded, still with a hint of ice in my voice, “who would argue that he is indeed a superhero. Many people think that rock stars like Bruce Springsteen are also superheroes.”

(I refrained from adding in, ‘So jolly well sucks boo’, but at that moment, I dearly wanted to.)

Now, Matthew and Liam are both very literal young men and they still tend to see the world in black and white. However, they do also try to be fair and humour their ageing mother from time to time when something is patently important to her, even if they don’t quite understand why. 



So they started to think about it and I watched from the rear view mirror as the cogs began to turn in their young minds.

It was rather endearing, seeing them trying to equate my concept of the rock star with their cherished concept of the superhero.

Matthew got there first.

“We-ell,” he said thoughtfully, “if you changed ‘Springsteen’ to ‘Wayne’ then he would be… Bruce Wayne! Who is Batman!”

Liam nodded in enthusiastic endorsement.

“Maybe Bruce Springsteen is also Bruce Wayne!” he chimed in excitedly.



Upon which I managed to keep a straight face – and also carry on driving in a straight line – while simultaneously clarifying that Bruce Springsteen was not actually Batman in disguise, even though they both have seriously good physiques.

(At least, I don’t think so: mainly because superheroes always have less flamboyant alter egos as part of their disguises, right?)   

Later at the concert…


…I decided that even if he wasn’t Batman, Bruce and The (ever-inspiring) E Street Band were indeed superheroes. As they started their three-hour plus concert with a tribute to our beloved late great Nelson Mandela



…I remembered how, around the globe, musicians – famous and less famous – have always helped to draw attention to rampant injustice; promote a worthy cause; raise money to feed the starving.

The entire concert was a fantastic experience. I didn’t know all the music, but  if I wasn’t entirely familiar with all the songs, the sheer mastery of the musical moments made up for it. Even the heavy rain that fell later didn’t (if you’ll pardon me for this one) dampen our enthusiasm. 



And The Boss smiled and smiled as he played and sang and bounded around the stage. I have never seen a rock star of his calibre (and I’ve been lucky enough to see a few) have so much fun while performing. Joburg rocked in the pouring rain that night, and Bruce was our leader.

At the end of the show, when he’d played his second (or was it third?) encore and finally left the stage, he was humble enough to end with another great musician’s tribute to another departed South African freedom fighter.

I had goosebumps going up and down my spine when I realised that Peter Gabriel’s heart-wrenching anthem to justice, ‘Biko’, was playing us out of the stadium.

Peter Gabriel


“Oh Biko, Biko, because Biko

Yihal Moja, Yihla Moja

The man is dead

The man is dead…”

And the eyes of the world

Are watching now

Watching now…

Oh Biko, Biko, because Biko…”

Such humility in your greatness, Bruce, by playing out your fans with another musician’s tribute. We don’t – often enough – see humility and greatness combined, and yet I feel that the truly great are always humble.

Bruce 2


So I really do think that some rock stars are superheroes.

And jolly well sucks boo to anyone who doesn’t agree.

Scenery to fall in love with

I always thought I wanted to live at the coast one day, instead of in land-locked Joburg. Now, I think I was made to breathe near mountains.

At first, though, I wanted to be in the rolling green hills of Kwa-Zulu Natal, somewhere close to Durban and the prettiness of the midlands, although I hadn’t decided exactly where I would plant my feet and declare “This is it! This is home.” I pictured my (not yet born or even on the horizon at the time) children going to the sun-drenched beaches at weekends and becoming lean brown water-borne creatures, comfortable slipping in and out of the blue-green ocean as they snorkelled, surfed and dived.

Then I realised that although KZN tends to have great winters most of the time (warm in comparison to the inland temperatures), the coastline is extremely humid in summer and you spend your life dripping with sweat and battling to keep your bedding crisp and fresh. And I also embarked on a once-off scuba-diving course, when I then remembered about all the big sharks that toothily inhabit the sea, so I decided the (still not born) children didn’t have to become water-borne creatures after all and that perhaps the KZN coastline, as beautiful as it is, wasn’t quite my ideal part of the world – at least not for permanent residence.

Still in pursuit of a dream (“When I grow up I’m going to live in X part of the country”) I have now turned my attentions to the western Cape. This part of the world enticed me after I’d fallen in love with Frank and we’d become an item. For our first Christmas holiday together, we went to the beautiful Paarl, where some of his family live.

The name Paarl comes from the Dutch name for a pearl (‘parel’) and like a pearl, the town and its surrounds are really beautiful. Legend has it that a Dutch explorer in the 17th century arrived in the area during stormy weather. As the sun came out, it glistened on three huge granite outcrops on the mountain looming over the valley below, reminding the Dutchman of diamonds and pearls, and so he admiringly named it ‘The Diamond and Pearl Mountain’. In the fullness of time the diamond part got dropped and the pearl prevailed and so from beneath the ‘Paarl Rock’ grew the town of Paarl.

The pearls of Paarl Rock

Frank unconsciously translates from Afrikaans when he calls it, in English, ‘The Paarl’, adding the definite article in front of it the way that Afrikaners call it ‘Die Paarl’. I think it deserves the honour of having the definite article in front of it in English too.

And so, the beautiful town of the Paarl is about an hour’s drive from Cape Town in the long shadows of the surrounding mountains, nestling in the enfolding wine lands that are around it, above it and even in it. You can’t drive in the vicinity of  the town without passing wine farm after wine farm after wine farm: some rich and resplendent with money and glamour; others smaller and cuter and dripping with character. And characters too, of course: human, canine, equine, bovine and, um, sheep. (What are sheep again?)

I fell in love with all of it – instantly. Frank and I drove from Joburg to Paarl that holiday, a distance across the country of about 1 400 kilometres. We therefore came to the Paarl having first negotiated the long dry flatness of the huge Karoo semi-desert area for more hours than I care to remember. My eyes were sore with the sameness of the Karoo: miles upon miles of (to me) visual boredom that the car just couldn’t quite shake, no matter how fast Frank drove to eat up the flat, dreary landscape.

I am aware that the Karoo has its own admirers who love the place and feel their souls are quenched there in its dryness and its unique semi-desert features, which bloom beautifully and surreally in the spring. Although I would admittedly like to visit in the spring one year, I am not a desert person, and so I felt my own soul start to perk up considerably when the scenery finally, bit by bit, started to change again.

Slowly, imperceptibly, the land morphed into something once more appealing.

Slowly the horizon grew a significant hill or two.

Slowly you saw signs of water that had arrived and then stayed to nurture the plants and coax the earth out of its dull palette of browns and greys.

By the time we drove through the Hex River Valley I was overwhelmed with the sensation that the world had exploded back to life. Ponds, dams, fruit farms and vineyards: all made bright patchworks of colour in the valley and up the enclosing mountain slopes before the gradient got too steep and the vegetation gave way to purple distance.

A valley exploding with life

I felt that I was home. I felt I was breathing air that had been waiting for me, ready to nurture my body and my spirit. We stayed for three blissful, soul-renewing weeks and everywhere we went in this amazing part of South Africa, we seemed to drive through beauty.

Then reality beckoned us back home and back to work.

Today, Frank and I live with our two boys in Johannesburg, one of the main economic hubs of South Africa. For now our jobs keep us here and we live in ‘the house that sang to me’ as I drove past it one day.

We love our house. We are really lucky with its unique vista, overlooking as it does one of the two Melville ‘koppies’ (hills), which are essentially unchanged since the days of iron age man. The east Melville koppie is a closed-off nature reserve and the west Melville koppie, which forms part of our view – the children call it ‘our mountain’ – is home on Sundays to a religious sect, who arrive in their blue, green and white robes and set the mini-mountain alive with their open air singing and the throbbing of distant drums.

'Our mountain'

To maximise the view of ‘our mountain’ and our exposure to the sky, Frank has built a deck in the back garden, above our storeroom (yes, he really did build it himself, plank by laborious plank). Here we like to sit for sundowners at weekends and on public holidays when the weather is kind. To our north lies the beautiful park surrounding Emmarentia Dam, where we walk sometimes with the boys and the dog, and to our west lies the Westdene Dam, where we also visit occasionally, although we usually find a bigger attraction en route in the glasses of good wine waiting for us at the cosy restaurant of ‘Tosca del Sol’.

In front of ‘our mountain’, flanking it as it runs west to east, is a long, thin valley and riding the thermals of the valley air we sometimes see the white flocks of sacred ibis on their travels. At other times, if we are lucky, they actually fly over our heads as we sit on our deck, astonishing us with the utter silence of their wings, which in flight are almost as quiet as an owl’s. At these moments, just sitting on our deck between earth and sky is like a benediction.

Flying soundlessly overhead like a blessing

My parents live just on the other side of ‘our mountain’, about five kilometres as the crow flies. My mom (sometimes aided by my dad, and sometimes apparently hindered) looks after the children in the afternoons until I fetch them once I’ve finished work. Most days, I’m happy to report, my parents are smiling when I fetch the boys and I hear tales of the funny things that were said and done. Sometimes I see my dad walking in the area with his neighbour, Sam, as I’m en route to work in the mornings. I always stop for a brief chat and a laugh, and revel in the quiet comfort of this unexpected domestic encounter. It is another piece of the puzzle that is my charming green neighbourhood and my home.

And yet sometimes, as we sit on the deck with a gracious bottle of dry white wine, I may inspect the label and see that it comes from the Paarl area, and it brings a little pang. While ever-conscious of counting my blessings, I look over then at ‘our mountain’ and wish, somewhat ungratefully, that it was a little bigger.

Or maybe even a lot bigger, with a long purple shadow and three glistening outsize pearls on its summit. Oh to have my cake and eat it too, and simply transplant the house. I’m sure I could persuade my parents to relocate.

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