We're not in Kansas anymore

I am currently living through my first Southern Hemisphere autumn (in May), which is very discombobulating. While London is beginning to enjoy the tentative return of sunny pub gardens, Johannesburg has descended into complete darkness before 6pm and Baltic temperatures by 9.

I may soon have to remove myself from all social media platforms entirely before the envy of seeing someone enjoy a crisp Sauvy B at my old local forces me to throw myself from Nelson Mandela Bridge.

I think the changing of the seasons has made me miss home more than usual this week. Or perhaps not home exactly, but the idea of a European summer: long, warm evenings and the collective delusion that life is about to improve simply because it’s 21 degrees and everyone is drinking outside.

The cold itself has also come as a surprise. Not because Johannesburg is objectively freezing, but because the houses here appear to have been designed on the optimistic assumption that weather is perpetually glorious. We recently had to acquire a portable gas heater (like the sort your grandmother used to keep herself alive in 1974). But the ordeal of heating one’s home in Johannesburg does not end there. We then had to obtain a gas canister separately, which quite frankly looked capable of flattening a Soviet apartment block.

Once we hauled it triumphantly home, we spent an amount of time I will never publicly disclose unsuccessfully trying to ignite the thing before realising the canister was completely empty.

This, I am learning, is the rhythm of life in South Africa. Nothing is ever quite straightforward. Watching my husband spend six hours at the SARS office this week trying to register for tax was another example of the country’s uniquely painful bureaucracy - a delay which felt especially audacious considering they are the ones requesting the money. In most countries, the government tends to locate you very quickly when tax is involved. South Africa, however, appears to prefer a sort of administrative torture.

And yet, despite all this, I remain fond of my new life in Johannesburg (see previous blog post). Living in South Africa is like dating an unbelievably attractive man with no money, six unfinished projects, and an “entrepreneurial mindset.” He’s unreliable. He disappears unexpectedly. But he’s gorgeous in natural light, wildly charismatic at dinner parties, and somehow convinces you every week that things are about to turn around.

Which, to be fair, is easier to believe in autumn. Johannesburg at this time of year is, in my opinion, more beautiful summer. The sky is so offensively blue it feels computer-generated, and the trees turn shades of gold that cover the entire city in an orange canopy. Although nobody warned me about the dryness. My skin has developed the texture of filo pastry and I have become deeply emotionally dependent on lip balm, more so than ever.

Blue skies and fall views from Westcliff Hotel

And then there’s the dust. The dry Highveld air fills with dust particles, smoke and pollution during autumn and winter, which scatter the sunlight and partly create Johannesburg’s spectacular golden-hour sunsets. Which feels very on-brand for the city somehow: even the beautiful light is technically an air quality issue.

Me on a chilly but sunny morning run.

So yes, I miss London sometimes. Or at the very least, I miss central heating, functioning bureaucracy, and the ability to leave a pub at 9pm without entering survival conditions. For now, I remain somewhere between deep affection and exhaustion. Which, from what I can gather, is a fairly accurate description of life in Johannesburg generally.

Notes from 26° South.