Harare Interlude 1: Treetops

So last week, I made a decision, and booked a flight back to Zim. It was time - and I'm celebrating by launching a set of blog posts that I'm affectionately entitling "The Harare Interludes".

You see - I realise that it's quite a personal thing - but one of the most awesome things about Joburg is the immediate proximity of home (or, more accurately, my home home). A couple of clicks on the internet, a short car ride to the Rosebank Gautrain station, and I'm approximately two cappuccinos and an in-flight bar service away from Harare. 

It really is awesome.

So let me go on a bit about my birthplace. I love being back - but I really love being back in January. The rainy season has lasted long enough to turn everything a startling shade of lime green. The road curbs are now luxuriantly over-abundant with wide-leafed weeds. And the 4 o'clock storms wash the skies a vibrant cornflower. And, oh my, the smell. 

When I go running, there is msasa woodsmoke and rain-soaked loam overlaying the warmth of freshly-cut grass, steaming damply in the mid-afternoon sunlight. And as you move, the air is gently peppered with the scent of flowers blooming in the sprawling colonial gardens just on the other side of hedges and brick.

I really can go on about it. A lot.

But to get back to my story: I got back, I called my friend Zerene, she called our friend Julia, and all three of us went to the Mekka cocktail lounge for drinks.

Enough said.

Then the next day, we went to Treetops in the afternoon for waffles. The parking looks a lot like this:

Parking

Having parked, I spent some time taking a lot of photographs that looked like the one above. I then found the two girls, and ordered a waffle, extra crispy. My mother has since told me that the chef there is French. But let me tell you three things:

1. Zimbabweans, contrary to popular Italian belief, actually make the best ice-cream;
2. That waffle may have been the crowning waffle moment of my life; and
3. That waffle was definitely a crowing moment for Zerene; who claimed full credit for the waffle, the setting, and the cloud formations that followed.

The waffle

Having had the waffle, spent some time gazing into the trees, and listened to Zed and Jules talk about Zerene's new manfriend (I was playing on my phone, taking more photographs) - we decided to walk down through the putt-putt course to the river area.

I found a trampoline and bounded onto it.

Instant. Crippling. Headache. 

"Age, it seems, has finally caught up with me". And just like that, the Frodo dream ended and I was being referred to as Bilbo. 

The trampoline

As we walked back to the car, I snapped my new most favourite photograph:

And that, dear readers, should tell you why every Zimbabwean wants to come back.

Home. 

It's like a childhood dream of white-barked trees and putt-putt courses and waffles and trampolines.

Narina Trogon

Last Thursday, I went out for dinner. Jacqui (AKA my favourite Joburger) booked for Narina Trogon, which I thought was an Ethiopian restaurant.

It's not an Ethiopian restaurant.

Which was a slight relief - because: 

1. I'm not such a big fan of sharing between 6 people a giant pancake laden with various stews (standard Ethiopian cuisine, I'm told);
2. I'd have been forced to bring out my small bottle of dettol waterless sanitizer (an OCD fixation that developed during two weeks of illness); and
3. I've been told that the Ethiopian district in Joburg requires a Bhuddist non-attachment to one's virtue and one's possessions.

A sigh of relief later, I remembered that the Narina Trogon is a type of bird (I remembered because Wikipedia stopped being in blackout and reminded me). When I first saw its picture, I automatically assumed that it was a bird of paradise located somewhere on an island in the Philippines (because naturally, all birds of attractive plumage must come from an island somewhere near Asia). 

Also wrong. Wikipedia reminded me that their home range is, in actual fact, Africa. 

So Narina Trogon is aptly named, and it specialises in "urban comfort food". And on a Thursday evening, the urban crowd needs a little comforting - especially in Joburg.

Narina Trogon in Town

On arrival, the outside section that we had booked was being fully occupied by two smokers. So we sat inside and ordered wine. The wine list was covered in crimson velvet, which I thought was a bit bizarre. That said, my 2011 Christmas lunch was spent at a vineyard that didn't have a wine list (Oh Cape Town...) - and the wine had to be specially requested (not because of snootiness, but because of general ineptness). So frankly, ever since then, I've just been grateful to see a wine list at all.

And the wine list is the kind I like. The selection does not leave you overly burdened by choice (a good thing) - and the minute I saw Springfield Whole Berry listed under the Cab Savs, I was happy to order almost anything off the menu. Which was another relief - because often I'm asked to pick a wine; at which point I pretend to be in the know and start commenting on the nose and the tannins and the quality of the barrelling process. But really, I just know that there are some wines that I like, and some that I've heard of. And I'll order either.

The white was a Tamboerskloof Viognier (delicious). Viognier is not a particularly dry variety, so it's normally mixed in with one of the drier wines to give a fruity bouquet to the blend. However, I really like it on its own. Personally, I'm a giant fan of the Vrede en Luste Viognier. It's often sold-out at the vineyard - so if ever you find it, you won't regret it (unless you only like your whites dry). The red was an Excelsior Cabernet Sauvignon - which is practically the definition of "value for money".

For starters, I shared a beef carpaccio in a mexican dressing with my new favourite NGO employee, Suzie Q. I'll admit that I was aiming for a beetroot rosti with smoked salmon and horseradish cream - but SQ was out for beef. So we had beef. And it was very pleasant. Personally, while a mexican dressing is an interesting twist, I'm still a fan of old-school carpaccio with the rocket and the balsamic and the parmesan shavings. But that's a personal taste issue.

Continuing the beef story, I followed SQ's lead and order the sirloin with the béarnaise. 

The Sirloin

The pros: 

1. The homemade chips were fantastic - my inner fat kid screamed in carbohydrated delight. Honestly. So good.
2. The sirloin was cooked perfectly to specification (medium rare).

The cons:

1. Possibly not the best cut of sirloin. I realise that sirloin traditionally has sinew in it, but this had more than usual. 
2. The béarnaise had too much vinegar in it. So it went really well with the chips (inner fat kid: "HURRAH!!") but not so well with the sirloin.

At this point, Jax got upset with me. Apparently, I should not have ordered the sirloin. So I tasted her lamb and herbed couscous. She was right. I should not have ordered the sirloin. Because that lamb is worth another visit.

I passed on dessert and ordered an espresso. That blend tasted most promising - I look forward to drinking it in cappuccino form. 

Observation: the dessert menu I found to be a little short on variety. But I'll admit to a personal bias here: I'm not a fan of chocolate in desserts, and I have to be in the right mood for a baked pudding (the malva, the sticky toffee, and so on). I think that the dessert menu felt too wintery for a balmy summer's evening. Summer is about fruits and berries and italian pannacotta. I'd like to see what they can do with pavlova. And sorbet. Yes please.

As we left, I got told to go and look at the aardvark. 

The "Aardvark"

Wikipedia then reminded us that it's actually a pangolin.

Wikipedia for the win.

And visit NT for the lamb.

Motherland Coffee Company

Recently, I read an article in the Economist about the rampant piracy of Civet Dung coffee. And I was like - I'm not sure how they pirate that, but whatever way, it sounds disgusting.

And then I read the article.

As it turns out, I've been wrong all along. Contrary to popular (my) belief, Civet Dung coffee is, in actual fact, made from real coffee beans. Apparently, these civets (affectionately referred to as "weasels" in their native Vietnam - I thought they were African - wrong AGAIN) are quite discerning about the type and ripeness of the coffee beans they eat - I like them already. Once the choiciest of the coffee beans have been swallowed, they pass through the cat/weasel, and leave the other end sweeter than they came in. The dung is collected by enterprising peasants; the beans picked out and sun-dried until the husks open, and the inner beans ground into some of the most expensive coffee on earth.

And there I thought it was the dung itself that was roasted, espressed, and mixed into freshly steamed milk. But now that I think about it, the whole process sounds wholesomely organic, and I'll confess that I'm now dead keen to try it. After all - my favourite part of the chicken is the parson's nose, and we all know what that is. I also like body-filters in general (liver, tripe, kidney). So if I'm entirely honest, I'm a peasant. 

What does this have to do with Joburg?

Well nothing really - I just found it interesting. But it does lead me onto one of my all-time favourite, most necessary, topics: the one-stop coffee shop. In Cape Town, I had Loading Bay. And Loading Bay was my place. I was there most mornings before work, and Saturday mornings were a given. In fact, I used to feel a little lost on a Sunday while it was closed!

I'm on the right track, baby - I'm at Loading Bay

After some careful thought and consideration, I have come up with a list for how to know if a place is your place:

1. You know all the baristas by name
2. You know all the regulars by name
3. The owner knows you by name
4. The baristas don't need to ask what you're having - they just make it (two capps to take away - one steamed hotter than the other so that I can drink it second, one Apple and Ginger juice with extra ginger, and a ham and cheese tosti on sourdough - asap). 
5. You no longer need to look at the menu when you sit down (after an extensive sampling process, you know that the goats cheese and fresh herb omelette is the answer to all Saturday-morning moods).
6. People stop asking what you're up to at 9am on a Saturday morning.
7. You time your visits to start just before it would get too busy for you to get rockstar parking and your regular table.
8. It has a song in your head (Lady G's "Born this way" morphed into a caffeine anthem, with verses and a bridge). 
9. You start to quote their slogan as a catch-phrase (Loading Bay: "Today Is A Good Day")
10. You occasionally post photos of it on Facebook, randomly tagging people you've taken there.

It really is though

And then, because I like lists, I came up with another one. Here are the key requirements for a one-stop coffee shop:

1. There must be good coffee (the beans must not be over-roasted, the milk must not be over-heated, arabica not robusta, micro-roasting preferred, a nutty flavour encouraged). 
2. There must be free Wifi (a NON-NEGOTIABLE - I have been spoiled. It's how I stay there for hours).
3. Clever decor/theme.
4. The food must be exciting (if you're there for hours, you're going to want to eat - and what's the point of good coffee with bad pastry?)
5. The barristas must be interested enough to realise that I'm a regular by day 3.
6. Background music must be non-intrusive (soft-core rock or latin-american jazz work well).
7. Close to parking.
8. They must open early (9 is just too late - I've been jonesing for a fix since 7:00 - to the point where the jonesing woke me)

So I moved to Joburg and despaired. Because Loading Bay is hard to repeat. I went to Bean There in 44 Stanley, and the coffee was delicious enough that I thought I could do without the free Wifi. But then I discovered that it's difficult to sit for hours without it. There's always Seattle - but even proximity to Exclusive Books wasn't enough. 

But then I tried Motherland Coffee Company in Rosebank. The coffee is delicious (particularly if you get an extra shot). The wifi is free (and fast). Everything is in black and wood and concrete. The food is not bad (although I had a moment with a chicken, feta and basil pesto wrap that I'd prefer not to repeat).  And there are solid ticks next to the parking, opening hours and background music requirements. 

"Africa is the Future and You are the Revolution"

I'm probably going to be a bit irritating going forward with that phrase. And there are t-shirts. I have been here everyday: it's where I'm typing this post.

The Motha Cuppa Latte with the extra shot

Dear Baristas - remember me. 

I'll be back.

Terenzo International: Red - it's in. Tell everyone.

Yesterday, I did some things that I'm not proud of. In the early hours of the morning, a mosquito and I engaged in an epic battle of Doom. The Doom won. But then, when I woke up the next morning, I found this:

The Scorpion

I don't want to lie to anyone: there was no cool, calm reaction. There was, however, the emptying of the rest of the Doom cannister.

To congratulate myself on a situation intelligently-handled (if there are scorpions, gas the bastards), I decided to go in search of a haircut. So I paid a visit to the Carlton Hair in Greenside, only to discover that they don't do hair. I'm not sure what the definition of humilation is, but being looked at funny by a group of hair-dressing apprentices seemed fairly definitive to me.

Then I crossed the road to the building with the Woolies Food and the Bookdealers, because I remember seeing an advertisement for hair-irons somewhere there - only to be assaulted by an over-powering chemical odour that reminded me of old-dears taking collective advantage of a perm special. I stopped right there. In my head, the mirrors would have had more than a hint of gilding and the seat-covers would have looked furry. Hairstyle posters covering the walls. The phrase "Sweaty Betty" swept through my head; and I had visions of the type of salon that you leave with a short-back-and-sides, and a headful of wet-style VO5 gel. 

No.

Not even to commerate the heroic scorpion victory of January 2012. 

So I left it. Went home and had lunch (chicken), and had a nap. After my nap, I went for dinner at my grandparents. There is something about home-baked lamb in the oven, cheesed cauliflower and brocolli, and the vegetable sides, that makes me incredibly happy on the inside.

Ye Olde Grandparental Meal

It was honestly too delicious. And there was wine, ice-cream and tea - in that order. So I came home zen, armed the house, and went to bed to read.

And then Joburg saw fit to initiate me. At 03:40, alarm sirens and racing footsteps outside and me locking myself in the bedroom. In less than 24 hours, my inner mediterranean house-wife returned screaming to the surface, and I was madly "saving the valuables" by stuffing them between the mattress and the base. Then I called my grandparents and asked them to call ADT. Clearly - sane enough to know that age, experience, and suitable distance from the situation is a much better alternative to mediterranean panic wielding an iPhone and not-much-else.

Also I'm a wuss.

After a morning spent sleuthing and giving statements to the world (daylight courage), I decided that it was time to revisit the hair-dressing situation. And I said to myself - bugger this. I know that Terenzos in Cape Town was where I went. I know that there's one in Dunkeld. And I damned well want to try it!

So I cruised along Bompas Road, parked, and it felt like I'd come home.

Many people don't understand my willingness to pay an exorbitant amount of money to have a hair-cut. Frankly, I don't understand their not-understanding. If I have to wear that haircut day in, day out, for 6 - 8 weeks - I'd better have a good one.

In fact, I'm sure that these are the same people that choose their lawyers and doctors based on financial reasonability. I'm sorry. But that's how you get burned. I want my doctor and my lawyer to have a very very keen interest in keeping me alive and using their services. It just makes sense.

And Terenzo? Terenzo is not really a salon experience. There's none of the seedy lighting with the basins at the back. No. The hair-wash takes place in an airy whisper-zone where the only sounds you hear are water running over the scalp and the background Adiemus. There are no chairs - there are red loungers along which you recline, with your head slipping over the back into white porcelain basin.

The red loungers

Then, there is the hand massage, with the essential oils and the hot pebbles being rubbed along your forearm. And the scalp massage continues for as long as it takes for the strain to be gone from your hands.

Once you're done here (a good 25 minutes of being touched), you return to the main salon, where you're plied with Illy cappuccinos and wine if you want it.

All the rooms look out toward the Terenzo pool. I'm not sure if people actually swim in it - but it looks immaculate, surrounded by wooden decking and jewelled aloes. 

The Garden with red cushions around the pool

What is my point in all of this? The point is that Terenzo gives you a 25 minute massage with a free haircut. 

And I'm properly from Joburg now.

I've been broken in.

The Johannesburg Thunderstorm

When it comes to taking photographs, there are a four things that I really love:

1. Clouds. For no good reason - I just love them;
2. Panoramic photos - because they're just more awesome;
3. HDR - because otherwise, thunderstorms just look dark; and
4. my iPhone - because it lets me do 2 and 3 instantly.

And if I'm honest (my CT folk will hate me for saying this) - it is way more satisfying taking photos in Joburg. Why? Well - for one thing, the clouds are better here. Fact. It's a climate/geography thing.

And secondly, you get to take something original. I'll be even more honest here - the Mountain, she is awesome. But so many photographs are taken of her that she's become an artistic cliche. It's like painting a bowl of fruit. Almost everyone has been there, arranged that, and thrown away the grapes after because they bought 'em from Checkers. And even if you are aiming for something different ("look at the sunset sky - look at the tree in the foreground - look!") - the first person to look at it goes "oh yes - pretty pic of the Mountain. Love the Mountain". And generally, the first person to look at it is you. Which can be quite depressing. 

So yesterday, while I was driving back from Stryjdompark (spelling??) or wherever, I crested the hill at Linden, and looked over at an infamous Johannesburg thunderstorm rolling on in. 

Magnificent.

Reminded me of the real meaning of the word "awesome". 

Leapt out of car with iPhone in hand.

Just before the storm arrives. You may definitely need thatch repairs. Note that number

At this point, I was beginning to risk my life. And I'm all for risking my life for art - but still. I'd prefer to risk it leaping off the Mountain, shouting "I'm gonna get me an aerial shot, security lady!" - rather than trying to cross a robot-intersection which has recently turned into a four-way stop with the red flashing discolights. And then I realised that the best view was from the middle of the road. Bugger.

So I raced around backroads looking for a better vantage point that didn't include death and rehabilitation, and I found this:

Breaking over the City Center

Now it just looks like it's breaking over Melville. But that's alright. Because I love the clouds. And then I went to Woolworths in Greenside and found this:

Wild success.

Arts on Main on a Sunday

My Sunday morning began with lazy scrambled eggs and a replay of the Flintstones movie. I love the scrambled egg process - whisking and spicing and the dash of paprika. Then in the pan, the slow forward scoop of the spatula to lift the bottom layer of cooked egg until there is none left uncooked. It just feels lazy when you make it.

The cousin (Natalie) made the tomato, mushroom and onion relish. I was a little skeptical of her "is it alright if I do what dad does, and just add sauces?" - particularly having seen the large number of sauce bottles in the cupboard above the stove. And now, having seen how they're used, I'm no longer confused by how many there are.

It was actually really good though! A little sweet, perhaps - but then, I'd over-salted the eggs. And frankly, almost everything feels a little over-seasoned on a Sunday morning. So it was awesome.

Once we'd established that the Flintstones was actually made in 1994, and finished staring at the empty plates and coffee mugs, we got dressed and went to Melrose Arch. Nats was looking for make-up brushes, so I went looking at bookshelves in @Home. And I found this:

Yes - that's what it said. "I Heart Joburg" in white font just hanging in the air as the scene turned black and white. I took it as a clear sign.

And it obviously was, because not long after this, I picked up one of my all-time favourite people (Jacqui the Joburger AKA Jax) - and she began to guide me toward Arts-on-Main ("And I'm going to show you a way that avoids going through town - because no matter what the hipsters say, let's just avoid it"). As we took the off-ramp onto the M2, we discovered that I am now a fully-integrated Gauteng-a-lenger. Jax says "Okay - I think we're going to take the third off-ramp". I reply "Oh yes - Joe Slovo Drive."

Boom. Like a boss. This was followed by ten minutes of self-congratulation.

And the self-congratulation was followed by finding rock-star parking. In my head, I high-fived the Universe. Although, I can't be sure that it wasn't out loud - because I did attract one or two strange looks.

So - Arts on Main. Wow. Totally unexpected. In and between the old-school industrial buildings, you come to this large gravelled courtyard shaded in olive trees. Around the sides, there are wooden bench tables and a white-tented bar, laden with giant tupperwares of cucumber, lemon and mint for the Pimms and Mojitos that everyone is drinking. And I mean everyone. On the gravel, beneath gently swaying olive branches, brown and white blankets are draped and dotted with cushions for many a hipster behind.

We wended our way through the courtyard to the bookshop/artshop. It sells local fiction, fashion bibles, Alexander McQueen photography books and Kentridge originals (Jax tells me that this is the guy that everyone knows in New York - sigh - gone are the days when they would have asked about the elephants in the backyard and whether you can speak African...). There were also many watercolours of mushroom clouds on the wall, with titles such as "it seemed to me that day winter" and "Oh that half the biscuit were when we". Hipster indeed. A little emo apparently. But still fun.

After that there was the clothing store, which is the home of the famous Jozi skyline collection. I bought two shirts. One with a twisted seam (which honestly makes me look defined - Jax paused when I walked out with it on), and one that has "Norwood" written across the front. It's important to be cool.

We then went through to the gallery areas. Sadly, only one had a show going. And this show... Acrylic posters worded like the section of the classifieds that mother never let me read: "XXX Boksberg broad. Your pleasure my pleasure. Call 0725887732. By appointment only". And "Giant Black Driller. For your M2M needs. Will cum to you. Call 0823579900".

Why? Why would you have this in your house? I don't really pretend to understand. Perhaps it's meant to be a reflection of the state of the world and the way we prostitute ourselves in subconscious ways to our partners in a game of tit-for-that (pardon the pun) where personality is for sale and sex is the monetary unit. Whatever. Even if that is the case - I don't want it in my house. Thanks.

After that, we'd worked up an appetite, and went to get homemade hot dogs from a Jewish gentleman. I'll be honest - the order of events does sound a little awkward now that I write it out. But the hot dog was delicious. With tomato and caramelised onion chutney and peanut sweet chilli sauce. On a blanket. Under an olive tree.

We followed this with Pimms on the rooftop bar. Where we struggled to find shade but did it anyway.

The perfect Sunday afternoon.

Only complaint? I didn't take any photographs. Such an idiot.

I guess I'll have to go back...

The Neighbourhood Goods Market

So Saturdays. Saturdays are awesome. In Cape Town, Saturdays would have started with a run along the Sea Point Promenade to Camps Bay, followed by two cappuccinos and goats cheese omelette at Loading Bay. Sea spray, mountain, micro-roasted blend and protein. In my mind, that's the way all weekends should start. Like you're on holiday. For real.

But now that there's no sea - what to do? WHAT TO DO?

So my cousin and I went for a run in Greenside. And let me tell you - Greenside lives up to its name. Tall oak trees and roadsides of creeping red soil, dew-damp and scattered with leaves. After 12 hours of no-traffic, the air smells clean - exfoliated by the night's thunderstorms, and alive with the mating calls of the african bird chorus. The sun's light dapples tar, loam and grass with unprejudiced abundance of colour.

Fifty minutes later, we were home. And the voice in my head went "Suitable sea -view replacement - check". The post-shower thought gravitated toward breakfast, and I began the venue conversation with "I am NOT going to Mugg and Bean". And then I suggested that we try the Neighbourhood Goods Market.

For those that don't know the famous Old Biscuit Mill institution in Cape Town - it is the original Neighbourhood Goods Market. That's its official name - but Old Biscuit Mill is the venue. I know it as "OBM" from many an sms and facebook status. I love it for three reasons:

1. It is the home of Espressolab (the supplier of Loading Bay's coffee). Espressolab has given me two of my best coffee experiences. The first was one of their Christmas blends, which honestly tasted like gingerbread (and that was just the way it was blended - there was no flavouring syrup!). The second was a Yemen coffee roast, which tasted like fresh hay. I mean - it's not like you want coffee to taste like straw per se - but the fact that they could do that to it left me in awe.
2. It is the home of Kitchen Cowboys, who make one of the most incredible fillet steak rolls ever. And their onion relish could almost make me weep.
3. It is the home of not one, but two professional photography stores. I used to go in to look at the panoramic canvases on the walls. Breathtaking. Both in beauty and price. But free to look!

So when I heard it advertised that someone had brought the idea to Joburg last October/November, I suddenly became a whole lot happier about my Joburg move. And the first Saturday I could (Saturday last), I was off to Newtown (NewTown? New Town? Braamfontein?) to check it out.

And I discovered that I really am a big concrete city boy. Old buildings, reclaimed timber, raw concrete, cityscapes and the giant cumulus clouds above the joburg skyline. It also turns out that one of the women who helps run the Neighbourhood Goods Market (hereafter known as NGM) is a friend of the cousin's! After a somewhat awkward moment where I shouted at her across a street (to attract her attention, of course), she came and spoke to us while we were having breakfast.

[Sidebar: breakfast was an egg and bacon roll, made with homemade mayonnaise, rose tomatoes, secret sauce and coriander. I'd agreed to chilli as well (freshly diced little red ones) - but I won't be repeating that. People can talk about "pleasant afterburn" all they like. At some point, you stop tasting the mayonnaise and the bacon. And then I'm left asking myself what the point is. But once I'd removed all the chilli after that first bite, I was in breakfast heaven.]

She tells us that there's actually quite a strict review process in order to have a stand at NGM. They need to be impressed by taste, food presentation and stand decor before they'll let you in. And you know - you can tell. That place is a little immaculate. None of that burned oil smell from the chip-roll caravan, or braai smoke from multiple boerwors and burger tents. It smells upmarket and fresh, with herbs and spices and barista-made coffee. Love it!

Also, there's an upstairs eating area that looks out at the Joburg skyline, framed by the buildings of Newtown. And best of all, there was room to move around (Cape Town's OGM becomes impenetrable after 8:30 am - this one was free-flowing when we arrived at 9:30, and stayed that way until we left at half 11!).

Saturdays are still going to be awesome.

I'm so ready.