Nelson Mandela Square

Day 2 - Sun, Sandton, Savanna
Fair fucks - the baby did not make ANY noise. Not a jot. Bless her little cotton socks. Her Mum and Dad are equally surprised / pleased. Vicks and I both sleep fitfully, but manage around 5 hours - enough to see us through the coming day. As we start to descend into OR Tambo airport, my view out of the window speaks of sunshine and warmth. Coming from a week of sub-zero temperatures in the UK, it’s going to be a blessed relief.

Our driver, Norman, meets us in arrivals, and whisks us over to Sandton, a plush and lush suburb of Johannesburg. I’ve only ever used Joburg as a stepping stone - a first or last pit stop on my way in or out of the country, and this trip will be no different. It’s just never held an attraction for me. Going back 20 years to my first visits to South Africa, all I heard about the city was the risk to tourists, which didn’t exactly endear it to me.

We’re staying at the familiar Sandton Sun hotel. We unceremoniously dump our bags in our room, and head out in search of sustenance. Sitting on the sun deck (albeit in the shade), we both find ourselves sinking into our chairs with a warm sense of wellbeing. Vicki dives into a large Chardonnay, while I have my first Savanna on African soil in 5 years. Both hit the spot in the best possible way…

We have actual chores to do this afternoon. Grocery shopping, hire car collection and so on - so despite the incredibly strong temptation to put roots down, we drag ourselves away. 30 minutes of mall wandering later, we’re back in the Atrium bar at our hotel. I get the car collection out of the way, and reward myself with a stunning glass of Cabernet Franc. Of such things will our days be made…

We’re ready for dinner a little earlier than needed, so head back to the sun deck for sundowners. The sun is still hot, but the Savanna is cold. I’m struck by how the balance of the clientele has changed. When I first visited in 2003, it was unthinkable that a smart hotel like this would have had black customers. Now, the balance is 90/10 in favour of customers of colour. There is a growing indigenous middle class in South Africa, the happy result of decades of affirmative action policies that are seeing folks get a fair break. I suspect not all of white South Africa is entirely supportive, but fuck ‘em.

Dinner this evening is at Trump’s Grill on Nelson Mandela Square. I’ve avoided eating here in the past, for the daft reason that it might be associated with that orange faced dipshit. It’s not - Trump's is a decades old family butchery in Johannesburg, and in 1994 they opened their restaurant. I’m the idiot. We’re given a brief tour of the wine cellar by the enigmatic Michael, and a quick tasting of some reds that should go well with our meal. Our food is delicious. Simple, but incredibly tasty. Kudu fillet for me, and a South African rib-eye for Vicki. We judge the amount perfectly, and even have some of our amazing Pinotage left to accompany our post dinner ramblings. We’re not quite ready for bed, so head back to the sun deck for one last glass of wine. The place is jumping. The DJ is playing a passable version of house music, and for a moment - it feels like we’re in Ibiza or Croatia.

One glass turns out to be quite sufficient. We wobble back to our room, and collapse into bed, knowing we’ve got an early start tomorrow…Leia mais