The end of the world on a sunny winter day in Johannesburg

 

It’s the first sunny day after a week of unremitting, unseasonal downpour.   The change in mood in the block is palpable. Balcony doors are open and those with pot plant gardens are out inspecting the remains of their plants in their pyjamas, strangely liberated from the pressure of public opinion about their personal habits or the shape and stripe of their nightwear.  There is an air of gratitude and relief, as though spring has sprung, although it is still winter. The air is free of the insidious haze of carbon monoxide that typically shrouds the Louis Botha Avenue side of the building and the first hint of a rainbow emerges like a halo over the notorious ‘death bend’, on the cusp of Orange Grove and Houghton.

 Despite the climatic transition, I am engrossed in a book about a ship’s doctor in the Antarctic. Extraordinary weather conditions have caused the ship’s pipes to burst as frozen water thaws. The hospital floor is flooded and water is raining through the dining room ceiling. I am about to turn the page to the part about the doctor and a nurse sloshing around the hospital trying to salvage essential equipment, when I become aware of a mild and then persistent current of water dripping onto my balcony from somewhere upstairs. It is not rain; it has quite a different tone as the water hits the terracotta tiles.

Standing on the balcony, I strain my head upwards and notice water flooding onto the balcony of the upstairs flat where the rabbi’s son, Elijah Nudelman lives.  It won’t be the first time that Elijah has left a tap running. It is common knowledge that he is not quite right in the head.  “He doesn’t have a full box of chocolates”, my next door neighbour Rachel Levine would say.  I tend to agree since I am frequently awoken in the night by Elijah’s turbulent dreams. His bedroom is one floor above mine and I hear him crying out in his sleep, either in Yiddish (generally towards the early hours of the morning) or in a stream of expletives shortly after midnight, almost certainly an extension of the ‘grunge’ music he plays relentlessly until he turns in. Leaning over the rail of the balcony, I shout up at the flat above: “Elijah! Elijah!” Silence. I run up the fire escape and ring the doorbell of Elijah’s flat, then pound on the door. Silence.

Back in my own flat, I phone Alfred, the gardener/caretaker. He arrives within minutes. A huge Zulu man, well over six feet tall, Alfred is permanently dressed in blue working overalls with a ZCC star pinned to his chest, and a bus conductor’s hat with the peak turned to one side of his head. He crouches and awkwardly contracts his large body to get through the door.

We try phoning the rabbi and then the chairperson of the Body Corporate, privately referred to as “the Body Cobra”, without success. The water continues to flow and then to gush down from the upstairs balcony as a newsreader on Classic FM announces a national emergency. I change the station and turn up the volume. Rede Thlabi is interviewing Acid Mine Drainage activist Mariette Liefferink on Talk Radio 702.  “I have been saying for years that the crunch is just around the corner,” Liefferink pronounces. “The central basin has decanted and the city’s water pipes have exploded from the pressure. As we speak, enough acid water to fill 50,000 Olympic swimming pools is flooding the city of Johannesburg”.

 Within hours the picture has changed. By now a vast lake of water has surged up from ground level and Alfred and I are boarding a small wooden rowing boat steered by the Body Cobra. Spluttering with a dog hater’s contempt and outrage as Alfred hands me my two small dogs, Green Tara and Kuan Yin, the Body Cobra takes a small notebook and pen from the inside pocket of his jacket, and makes a note, no doubt with the intention of imposing a special levy on owners with pets.  The antagonism between the dogs and the Body Cobra is mutual.  They growl at him. I smile inwardly.

Rabbi Yudelman, wearing full Lubavitch religious trappings, and Elijah are already in the boat. The Body Cobra steers the boat past 112, where Rachel Levine climbs in, clutching a bag of Israeli jewellery in case she meets any customers on the way. Then we pass 108 to collect Noah Abramowitz.  Noah, referred to by Alfred and other staff as ‘Omdala Oyinqaba’, the old eccentric, is best known for singing an eclectic repertoire at the top of his lungs in the underground parking garage at odd hours of day and night.  As we arrive at his balcony he is singing, ‘The times they are a changing…”  “Oh get in, Noah!” Rachel Levine snaps with irritation.

 After one more stop at 113 to pick up Hymie and Beulah Lazarus and their parrot, Lennie, the boat is quite full.  “Get back inside? Get back inside!” Lennie shrieks as the boat lurches hazardously towards Louis Botha Avenue. 

 

With despair, I notice that “Orchards Wheel and Tire”, “Jay-Jay's Car Wash”, “Mashi Rose Tombstones,” “E&W Steel Design”, “Burgess Plumbing”; “Vintage Clothing”; and “Tonino's Pizza and Pub” are almost entirely submerged.

 

Noah sings, "He aint heavy, he's my brother," as I beg and bargain with the Body Cobra to make a stop at my brother’s shop to see if he needs help.  Finally he agrees and we sail up the ramp to the old warehouse, where my brother’s eccentric second-hand bookshop is located. A plastic sign reading: “Men working overhead” that I anxiously recognize as one of my brother’s collection, floats by.

 All the shelves on the lower half of the wall are under water. Richard and his assistant, Liberty, are huddled together with dazed expressions on the narrow walkway assembled from steel, wood and hemp rope, that runs alongside the upper part of the shop. They are surrounded by boxes and crates of books labelled in thick black ink: Peter Cheney; Howard Spring; Denis Wheatley; Frank G. Slaughter; Stephen King; Taylor Caldwell; Dornford Yates; Medical Romances; Shakespearian Studies; Crime Fiction; and Judaica.

 

The boat rocks and dips precariously as Richard and Liberty squash themselves in between Hymie and Noah on the central plank.

The Body Cobra steers the boat towards Maryvale Convent. The historic mural of our Lady of the Wayside is almost entirely under water. The water is lapping at our lady’s chin and above her head, two nuns clinging to the church steeple wave frantically, but there is no room for them in the boat. The Body Cobra shrugs his shoulders and shakes his head sadly.  On we go towards Killarney, passing the mosque on Central Avenue, Houghton, with its imposing minarets. I imagine that Na’eem and Fatima would have fled here and wonder whether they are still in - or on - the building or whether they have been rescued by a helicopter or a boat. Since Na’eem always has strings to pull, I am confident that he would have made a plan.

 
“How long will we be here?” Rachel Levine laments, her arms folded across her chest. “Until the ijuba calls,” Alfred volunteers.  “Until we reach dry land,” Liberty adds. “Get back inside!  Get back inside!” Lennie protests.

The acid water swirls and sways against the sides of the boat. The rabbi is praying, rocking back and forth over his huge stomach. Richard closes his eyes and mumbles a few empathetic words from the Anglican liturgy.  I remove my mala from my bag and count the beads, quietly chanting the Om Mane Peme Hung.  Noah sings: “The holy dove was moving too, and every breath we drew was Hallelujah, Hallelujah, and Hallelujah…”

43 years of gardening on the Kensington Koppie

“This is Robben Island and if you come this way from the Cape, you see Africa in front of you…and that’s West Africa there…”  Phillip O Pirie walks me through his extraordinary garden that extends beyond his Ferret Street property onto the famous Kensington koppie.  He has been cultivating this garden for 43 years. 

 It all began when Rita O Pirie wrote to the Town Planning Department of the Johannesburg Municipality in 1971:

“Dear Sirs,
…I am interested in purchasing or leasing the piece of ground surrounding the stand for the following reasons:

1.   To beautify the area which is in a sad state of neglect – broken glass, refuse from dumping, rusty tins, etc.

2.   As I have three young children, our grounds, which are mostly terraced, are inadequate for them to play on. They are inclined to play on the piece of ground described above.

3.   The ground situated behind the house is used by Bantu males and females for drinking parties and urinating. My husband is away for considerable periods and when requesting the abovementioned Bantus to leave they use foul language and become aggressive.

4.   We have no privacy at the rear of the house and such passing persons can see over the low wall into the house.

 The Council agreed to the encroachment provided the costs were covered: R 10.50 for the plans; revenue stamps to the value of R 2.10; and a nominal fee of R 1.00 per annum for an initial five years. 

After more than 40 years of encroachment (the law says 30 years), the property belonged to Phillip and Rita O Pirie when I  met them last year. The property was on sale at the time and they had received a good offer from a Muslim family.

O Pirie’s interest in gardening began when he was a child at Holy Cross Convent in the Transkei. He grew up there: “Let’s just say I was one of the war orphans of the time," he says.  Two nuns taught him the basics of gardening: “There was Sister Florence in the flower garden and Sister Veronica in the vegetable garden and they both had green fingers.”

Over the years gardening has helped O Pirie balance his working life. He joined the SA Police Force when the Rand Daily Mail called for English speaking cops to join up in 1956 and was based at "the old Marshall Square" from 1956 - 1966. In 1967 he met Nelson Mandela at the Drill Hall, near the Noord Street taxi rank in Joubert Park. The initial stages of the Treason Trial happened there.  

After ten years as a policeman, O Pirie started his own company in the security/investigatory field. His work has taken him to many countries and brought him into contact with dignitaries around the world. 

His clients who were initially all white became “from across the racial spectrum” and include several notorious South African millionaires. O Pirie says he has considered writing a book entitled: “The ten multi-millionaires and one billionaire.”  The billionaire is a more recent client.

O Pirie relied on cheap labour (workers were paid a standard rate of between R2.00 and R5.00 per day in the early years) and inexpensive materials (cement cost R9.50 per packet) to construct the stone walls surrounding and separating the different levels of the garden.   “Most of the labour was carried by me and blacks,” O Pirie says.” It was a question of almost having four blacks Saturdays and four blacks Sundays clearing the stand and building this colossal stone wall. I had a boy from the Northern Transvaal, Limpopo area… Hell, what a good worker that was…”

I would not get into a discussion on apartheid history with Phillip O Pirie since it is unlikely that we would find much common ground. Nevertheless, he is a modest, courteous man, sensitive to people and the natural world. It is interesting to me that although he clearly has a sense of connection to plant life, his approach to gardening is quite severe and regimented: “My style has more of a military base. I like straight lines and uniformity.  I like different colours but they must blend.” Looking up towards the koppie I can’t help thinking how untamed and unordered the terrain is and what a struggle it must have been to impose structure on it.   

The next challenge for O Pirie is his daughter’s 1.8 hectare property in Lonehill: “My daughter’s garden is not straight lines. It is more circles.  I am going to try and make it conform”, he says.