Firsts are the stuff of childhood, obviously. As I age, though they come thinner and slower, still they come, and I notice them a lot more than ever I did when they were the stuff of life.
We are driving into Johannesburg. I have never entered Johannesburg for the first time on any trip like this before, I have always flown in. I did fly into Johannesburg, just over two months ago, but I flew straight out against to Durban to begin the tour, my feet never touching the outside of OR Thambo International.
Two months ago. That's, like, two months. Two of them, for crying out loud.
Now, Mama, my Littlest Aunt and I have been on the road about eight hours. We are about to drive to my cousin's house but currently we are in a bit of the city we do not recognise and after eight hours on the road we are calmed considerably by the gentle ministrations of Tracey's satnav. It would be a whole other ending of wrong turnings and stress and extra hours of snappy panic without it. All hail satellite technology, plastics and microchips in general, and this particular stanav in particular.
The thee of us got on the road this morning, slightly later than intended because we were staying in a fabulous place. Nieu Bethesda is a tiny settlement located, roughly speaking, somewhere between Oudtshoorn and Johannesburg. Mum, Auntie and I have overnighted in the loveliest of little cottages and in the morning we visit the very famous Owl House and Camel Yard. We buy gifts in gift shops and look at the second hand bookshop. I rue the chance we have lost to do the show here, for despite a population of only 1,000 souls, 900 of those living in the township nearby, there is a theatre and the woman in the bookshop tells me that they love to go to the theatre. I'm not surprised: this place is bijou in the extreme, no sealed roads and only in existence because the local farmers not that many decades ago needed somewhere to build a church so that they didn't have to go all the way to Oudtshoorn to worship. Any entertainment whatsoever must be welcome, even if it is a woman doing a show about her own sister's murder.
Seven of us, plus my tiny roommate, had celebrated my birthday in a very idiosyncratic self-catering place, run by a German couple, in Oudtshoorn. Their living quarters, their kitchen, the contents of their fridge mingled with ours as Martin eeeeeked out the story of their being here. Buying the farm without ever having seen Oudtshoorn, previously never having lived in South Africa, never having run a farm, they gave up having a manager for the farm and started, in their late fifties, to learn to be farmers. He speaks no English at all, or Afrikaans, or Xhosa. He speaks German. They are welcoming and solicitous and interesting and.... individual.
On these few days' holiday to celebrate my inexorable age journey I had a trip to the caves, some ostrich visiting, eating out, eating in, a spectacular electric storm with angry rain and blood-curdling sound effects, a power cut which lasted and lasted, tickling a cheetah, lying by the pool, finishing the antibiotics for my infected ear and enjoying Precious the boa constrictor round my neck, amongst many other fabulous activities. I am loved, I can tell. I could tell before, but, well, a boa constrictor! Round my actual NECK!!! It is as wonderful as I hoped it would be when I did that (very poor, as usual - I am no researcher, no academic) project on snakes when I was eight.
Only a couple of days after my abrupt ageing, it had been, suddenly, time to say goodbye to my tiny roommate and his fathers. It's tough. I've been with them for two months and Mark is.... was, after all, Kate's best friend. There is something about the nature of our relationship which incorporates her without us speaking about her that much. I am lucky to have a brother whom I love and loves me. On top of this I have these extra brothers who have had me in their home for two months: count them. That's love, or at least amazing tolerance.
And I am aware that the heartbreak I'm trying to metabolise about that man is inextricably linked to Cape Town. In spite of all the wonder of the place, every metre I get away takes me from what now feels like a terribly embarrassing mistake, or at least that seems to be the current coping strategy adopted by my psyche. So it is partially with alacrity that I put everything to do with the city behind me. I cannot imagine never going back, but neither can imagine ever being able to face it again.
Johannesburg, on the other hand, looms large and lovely over the whole trip. This is a bit odd as it is where Kate and my now dead South African Aunt lived, it is the place I have been coming to since I was seven. I resist the idea but there is no denying that it is one of the places I call home, though these days it is irrevocably marked by loss, nausea and fear. Not the usual Joburg fears of carjacking and brutal burglary, though. My more prosaic fear of simply unravelling emotionally stalks me hard and close in Joburg, although on previous visits I have outrun it. But then maybe that is partially what home is for me. I've never properly understood the relaxed comfort which the idea of home seems to bring some of my acquaintance. Maybe one of the reasons I am drawn to doing things that scare me is that home is not a place of safety. Why stay home, full of fear, when one could be out there experiencing the real thing?
But I'm not into the real fears, things that might bring me genuine misery, which is why I am very happy when I realise the three of us are nearing Linden in the northern suburbs of Joburg, the end of our journey, at least for now; the safety of my cousin's place and the promise of some good times to come with my South African family. And the Joburg shows. The location of the heartbreak, all the great new - and old - friends, each Cape Town show, the lovely moments with my tiny roommate, are behind me and what is left is the here and the now and the whatever comes next.
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