SOUL THERAPY IN THE CITY OF GOLD

The front man does a somersault, then the four pick up red beer crates to beat out a syncopated rhythm on the hot tarmac, all rat-a-tat-tat and fancy feet. With only seconds to go before the lights change, they spread out among the cars, looking for any sign that someone will part with a few coins for their pantsula show. A far cry from the guys in Cape Town who sink to their knees and gaze imploringly at you, I think. This is Joburg. And Joburgers know how to work it.

This then, is a story about travelling for work. You donʼt come to Jozi to lounge beside a large pool, cocktail in hand (though thatʼs exactly what its citizens do on any given weekend, curling braai smoke and the smell of lamb chops in the air). You come here to make the deal. To tap into industry. To connect with a citizenry that is at once welcoming and impatient, gregarious and indifferent, giving and grasping, and always, always on the move.

So here I am. A working tourist, watching the sub-Saharan pulse of Africa at the corner of Jan Smuts and Bompas.

Itʼs more than three decades since I steered my Mazda 323 down the N1, looking for a new life in Cape Town. But I learnt to drive here, and after the initial terror of finding myself on a 12-lane highway, trucks thundering, cars weaving in and out like some loco loom,