What makes you smile about Joburg?

“What makes you smile about your city?” That’s this month’s theme in the global social media campaign I’m involved with and it’s a challenging one. I’m sure that the bloggers in London or Paris have loads of material to work with, but for Joburgers it’s a question so loaded as to be provocative. As one friend told me, the thing that makes him smile most about Joburg is the sight of the city in his rear-view mirror.

Joburg tends to inspire love-hate relationships. It probably has a lot to do with our history: we started out as a town where people came to make their money, as much of it as possible in as short a time as necessary, and that was it. We don’t really do scenery or culture or history here, not compared to other cities, so Joburg will only reveal its softer, more thoughtful side to those who search for it. There are people who are ridiculously — mystifyingly — in love with the city, but the natural emotional state of a typical Joburger on any given day is not conducive to being relaxed and smiling beatifically. We’re too busy telling someone — and this is a polite translation — to hurry up and get out of our way.

Not that we’re unfriendly: of all of South Africa’s cities, we’re probably the easiest for outsiders, because we’re only really interested in how much money people make. Nonetheless, one thing that always brings a mildly incredulous grin to my face is when we do very un-Joburg things, like let each other into traffic. This happens surprisingly often; in fact, I see it all the time. (Durbanites tell me that nobody ever lets you into traffic there so evidently we’re more polite on the road than our cousins on the coast.)

There are other things that make me smile about Joburg too. Getting all green lights, for instance, especially when you’re on the William Nicol: that’s when you know you’ve been blessed by the robot fairy.

The smell of rain on wet tar, rain slapping softly on the slasto outside my bedroom. And rainy under-the-duvet Sundays.

Hearing the calls of the first summer migrants, the Piet-my-vrou, and the soft sweet calls of the European bee-eaters as they circle high above in the twilight. Red-billed Woodhoopoes, dikkops and owls. Watching a hamerkop assiduously tenderising a frog by bashing it repeatedly against a rock — gruesome, but riveting.

Street wire-and-bead artists and their wares. Who on earth buys a life-size sheep? I love the way they’re always innovating, and they ensure that their product reflects the appropriate retail theme, whether we’re talking Valentine’s Day or Christmas. Then there’s that incongruous metal herd of everything from life-size giraffe to warthog and sable antelope that has mushroomed at the intersection of William Nicol and Main. I’ve never yet seen anybody actually purchase any of these items, but I take it on trust that somebody does.

Jasmine. And jacaranda blossom.

The honey light of late afternoon, when the green of the trees takes on an almost luminous quality. Going home after a long day, having a glass of wine with friends. Unexpected encounters with interesting people.

Seeing one of the Outsurance pointsmen at an intersection where the lights are out, and feeling both relief and gratitude. Watching the rush-hour traffic on the highway from my window, pleased that I’m not in it and speculating about the lives of the motorists passing slowly by. Seeing the resident flock of pigeons that live on the other side wheeling about in apparently pointless circles, and beyond, the hills of the Witwatersberge all Lord of the Rings in the distance.

Every day there is something to smile about. It might not always seem obvious, especially on a Monday. But it’s there, somewhere in the city. All you have to do is see it.