A Day at Brooklyn Mall

Yesterday, I spent over seven hours in a mall. And I loved every minute of it. True about an hour was just hanging out with my husband, about three hours was watching harry Potter and two hours Elvira’s baby shower (so many beautiful and vibrant Hispanic women!). The last hour I was alone doing some Christmas shopping. But still, it is disconcerting.

And this wasn’t just any mall. It was Brooklyn Mall, one of Pretoria’s fanciest, snobbiest places to be. My husband was the only black person in the theatre. He said that must be why they charge such a high price- to keep out the other “darkies.”

The boutiques in this mall are all fancy and snobby too, but somehow, to me, comforting. I found a beautiful local craft store and recognized much of the products as being from Ama Job Job. I passed a store called “Organics” which had modest manikins in the window draped with hemp and cotton fabrics. There was a Chinese Restaurant, cafes, all well lit and spacious. I think at some moments I could have been convinced to move in there, given the opportunity. Disconcerting...

Even more so given the supposition that I should be suffering from some level of reverse culture shock. In the morning, I woke up in a tiny house (probably the size of your living room) which I share with five other adults, one teenager and a baby. At least my husband and I are privileged enough to have one of the miniature bedrooms to ourselves. The other bedroom is occupied by my two sisters-in-law, the older one’s daughter and my mother-in-law. The other married couple sleeps in the lounge in the cramped space between the couches and the TV.
Our house is in Rabie Ridge, an upper-end township of Midrand, North of Johannesburg. The houses are sturdy, well-built and finished nicely. The only essential we lack is a kitchen sink, and that’s coming. The neighbourhood seems safe enough. But I am far from comfortable here, far from fitting in. I don’t know of any other white people living in the township, other than myself, though I’ve seen one or two strolling near the shops.

After getting ready, we take a free taxi to the rank in Ivory Park. On entering, the pavement is crumbling beneath the taxi’s wheels. Sewage runs in the gutters and street where a septic pipe has burst, filling the air with a thick aroma. Garbage is piled high on certain street corners, but is also scattered lazily everywhere. The houses and shops are no longer made of brick and concrete, but rather are constructed primarily of sheet metal scraps. Signs are hand painted, advertising wares and services. “John Glass Work,” “Phila Ngiphile” (Live so I live). The streets are full. Full of taxis, full of pedestrians, especially children. Last month we arrived at the rank just after an accident. A taxi had run into four people. I don’t know how many actually died, but when I saw them, they were all layed out, two on stretchers and two still on the pavement, completely still. A few weeks later the taxi association (Taxi Ass) released an apology posted in many of the taxis, regretting the loss of life that day. I always look both ways.

From one crowded, hot, sticky taxi to the other. We wait for it to fill up, wait for all eighteen passengers to cram into rows of four with two seated next to the driver. We try to avoid those front seats. Whoever sits there is responsible for collecting all the fare, distributing the correct change to all the passengers and giving the driver his share. Sometimes we do it wrong and have to make up the difference with our own money.

The first seat behind the driver is also undesirable. There you usually have to negotiate around shopping bags and toddlers, not to mention the engine seems set your shoes on fire from under you. We like the back rows, preferably one where you’ll have control of one of the sliding windows. Heaven help you if you get stuck in a taxi where no one else seems to notice the heat. Is it just me? I am melting and no one will even crack a window? Lately a steadily increasing sense of claustrophobia has been growing in me. I need more time alone in a room as each day passes. I feel crowded on the streets, on the sidewalks, in the house, in the shops and even in the school office, which is currently being shared by six people, not including the teachers and students who come through each day. I am crowded with too many bodies, too much litter and too many comments by strangers concerning this black man and white woman, a complete anomaly around here, this city which housed the architects of apartheid. I am crowded by merchants, pamphleteers and pastors. Mostly, I am crowded by eyes, which seem so magnetized towards us. Even sunlight makes me feel cramped, and I now prefer cloudy days with light or even thunderous rain. The showers seem to wash away some of the choking dust and misconceptions. Rain affects us all the same. The sun turns me red and peels my skin, without seeming to even touch my husband or others with his complexion. But in the rain, we all get wet.

My husband and I have created a ritual of reading out loud to each other on the taxis to Pretoria. We ignore everyone else, whether they are annoyed, amused or ambivalent, and slip into the world created by the current writer. Most days, I can only last a few chapters before the motion and heat of the taxi, in all its bumping and creaking, pull me into sleep. We arrive.
During the walk to the next taxi my lover befalls a tragedy, the drama of which leads us into quarrelling. Before we arrive, we have already understood one another, repented and forgiven. This is one of the primary sacraments of such a union. Afterwards, time together feels even sweeter, like icecream after chips and vinegar. The sour brings out the sweet.

And so our outing begins. We arrive at the mall and my tiny house, the open sewage of Ivory Park, and the balmy taxis all slip away inside this temple of light and luxury. Should I feel guilty for relaxing and breathing deeply in a palace built for consuming? I was told by a wise woman that our feelings are never wrong. So this place comforts me. So I appreciate the space and the light and the illusion of wealth. This must only be a reaction to my environment the rest of most days. And so I accept that I enjoyed a day at the mall.

This does, however, make me more grateful for the approaching changes. I’d wager that when I am living with my beloved in a house on a camp surrounded by fields, forests and lakes, that my place of refuge will no longer be a snobby mall in the suburbs.