Sin City

There is a Sub city here beneath us. A sub culture of near-humans, living among graffiti adorned buildings and rubbish-strewn pavements. The smells of piss and shit, a reality-covered bullet to the senses. The feeling of despair is as tangible as the nightmare I had two nights ago.

Driving down Rocky Street, these thoughts come to mind as I revisit the entrance to my University of Life. It was here, back in 1980 that I first came face to face with the nightlife of Johannesburg, and long before I ventured to the seedier side of the ‘Brow’ nearby.

Rocky Street is but a shoestring’s width from Malvern where I was born, and the flood of memories surface as I take the short drive and stop across from the ‘Ou Apostoliese Kerk van God’ in St. Amant Street. The house where I grew up is right next-door. The apple tree long ago flattened for what is now a parking lot. I remember stealing grapes from the pastor’s house with my Porra buddies, back when I was only hip-high to my father.
The corner café is now a curtain shop, and the old BP garage has since changed to a Taxi workshop. I ran away from home once, and thought the garage was a world away. That was until the Police picked me up and took me back home. They first had to lure me with some Jelly Tots and a cool drink so stubborn was I, even back then. I drive back to Rockey Street again, passing through Troyville, and crisscrossing my way over Linksfield to the new China town, in Cyrildene. All the while remembering my youth, as I pass the old Bruma Lake (now Asian City), and join the highway south, back home to the countryside. A 12-year journey of discovery - squeezed into a two-hour trip of nostalgia.