Journey to the top of Ponte

What the hell are we doing in this crowded elevator - noses against armpits - inching our way up to the top of Ponte, Jozi's most bizarre building, on the edge of Hillbrow, its most dangerous suburb?

"Tales of brazen crack and prostitution rings operating from its car parks, four stories of trash accumulating in its open core, snakes, ghosts and frequent suicides have all added to the building's legend", writes Michael Subotzky in Ponte City, an incredible photo essay of its days of dereliction in 2008. This brutal, whackjob of a building. Dystopian hell, the perfect panopticon.

Yeah, what the hell are we doing?

Haha, sundowners, of course.

Tourist in my own town, darling. Can you believe it's now possible to go for sundowners and snacks (R280 pp) at the top of Jozi's most infamous building, courtesy of Dlala Nje, a community organisation who are promoting Ponte Love - love and kisses for the now cleaned-up refurbished Ponte City.

We're not feeling the love so much as we Uber it in to Hillbrow past the shivering nyope addicts and whippet-thin prostitutes, but once we're inside the gate and grounds of Ponte City, it feels pretty friendly. There are ten of us and we all take selfies with the tower in the background. Then Steve the guide from Dlala Nje, meets us at reception and he nannies us through the Taking the Lift part which is most surreal.

The lifts are apparently newly installed at a cost of R5 million each, which is reassuring since they're being maxed out right now. It's five pm on payday and everyone and their auntie and their fridges, TVs and mattresses are going up and down in the lifts which seem to take an unbelievable amount of cargo. It's noisy and cheerful and we tourists are a novelty, but there are frissons of unhappiness in our party about claustrophobia and just how many people a lift should actually... when suddenly one opens and Steve herds us all in, plus a few, tight like sardines, and we are pulled hellishly upwards.....

But oh my, when we get out at the 51st floor and step into Dlala Nje 5101, this is what awaits. A shebeen chic venue with simple charming decor and the most befok views of Jozi at sunset. Never mind the lovely bar which we fall upon with great glee and starting frantically drinking and chatting and taking pics and exchanging weird stories about Ponte.

My friend Sally said she'd driven past Ponte every day for the past 25 years and couldn't believe she was actually at the top now. One of the guys in the group said he'd shagged someone who lived in Ponte when he was young. Phil confessed he'd visited when it was real dodgy. When I was a teenage delinquent I once visited a guy in Ponte and we saw a druggie throw a puppy over the edge into the pit. 

It's gritty, but it's pretty. And impossible not to get high on the views and the vibe at Dlala Nje 5101. We eat and drink and get festive. Steve give us the lowdown on Ponte - it was built in 1975 by German architects Manfred Hermer and Rodney Grosskopff, it's 173m high. In its day in the 70s it was the height of sophisticated apartment living and Hillbrow was known as Manhattan in the veld. Then when the city collapsed in the 90s it fell into despair and dereliction and became a bizarre slum filled with poor people, immigrants, gangsters and crazy fucks.

"The reality of Ponte and its many fictions", writes Subotsky, "have always integrated seamlessly into a patchwork of myths and projections that reveal as much about the psyche of the city as it does about the building itself".

When it's time, Steve takes us down again, and now, the Taking the Lift part is fine because we're all drunk and supercharged on views and stories. The final dramatic touch is a visit to the infamous pit at the bottom of Ponte, which has been completely cleaned up. We all ooh and aah about what must have been unearthed in the four-storey high trash pile - skeletons, fridges, television sets, pots and pans, beds... I think of the poor puppy.

We stagger out to our Uber trying to feel the Ponte Love and definitely feeling the weirdness of having been inside and up to the top of the city's most peculiar building.

Would I do it again?

Yes, probably, but you'd have to come with me.

For more information on the tour check out Dlala Nje on Facebook

From a hotel room

I have spent an inordinate amount of bed hours at the Southern Sun in Maputo. That’s because general manager Bruce Chapman - surely one of the continent’s finest hoteliers - was kind enough to host me once upon a time while I researched and wrote a guide book to Maputo and beyond. 

Low tide walker 

It led me to witness extraordinary spectacles across that delicious city, but also some extraordinary spectacles just from my window. An urban beach, a palm tree, a window frame -  what a fabulous composition aid for the framing of the clam pickers, the lone wanderers, the capoeira dancers, the lovers and very late at night, the traditional healers who bring their clients to the seafront to cleanse them or heal them or put them in touch with their ancestors. Which involves a great deal of loud prayer, sometimes weeping and wailing, unnerving at 3am for those who are not familiar with Africa’s religious customs. You hear it better, or worse, from the right hand wing of the Southern Sun. Often this was the time myself and my fearless street guide Phil Baker would be arriving back at the hotel after many satisfactory evenings of er, research. 

Sunrise

In the old days, before the $30 million dollar refurbishment, sigh, Bruce used to routinely book me into the Presidential Suite. It was his idea of a joke and I loved it and found it most funny, especially when one of the waiters started calling me Mrs President. Oh those were the days. Since then, Maputo has had an Economic Miracle - although it’s increasingly shaky and dubious - and I have been bumped from my perch by more important people such as those building bridges, importing cars, setting up banks and exploring coal and gas deposits.

Dear Bruce made sure it was been a very gentle transition down to the Superior Executive Princess Suite Extraordinaire on the floor below, although I do miss the big lounge of the old Presidential Suite, its two flat screens TVs and two bathrooms, vast lounge with leather couches. There was more space to shoot pictures while lying on the floor too, although my new suite has a stricter frame for composing pictures and perhaps it has made my eye more disciplined. 

The new refurbishment of course has made the Southern Sun even bigger and better and Bruce is still ever generous with his champagne and hospitality and friendship and I now have this fabulous collection of photos from the window of my hotel room. 

*  Check out www.tsogosunhotels.com/hotels/maputo

Reserved for the Ministry of Fabulousness 

Escape to Mother Fuckers Bar!

You'll find Mother Fuckers bar in Catembe

My journey from Phuket in Thailand to Maputo in Mozambique is hell. There is no business class blingy-blingy, sweetie dahling this time, just two days of non-stop awfulness travel - on minibuses, planes, trains and taxis and trains, planes and minibuses and somehow at the end of it all I eventually wake up on the other side of the world at dusk, listening to the sighing of the same Indian Ocean I just left in Thailand. I have travelled some 8000km and lost five hours and large parts of my sanity.

Now I am in Maputo on business, alongside Sawubona - official magazine of our national carrier SAA - to find out about the building of the biggest suspension bridge in Africa that will link Maputo mainland with Catembe spit, and link Ponta d'Oura with Kozi Bay in northern KZN. It’s big news, big bucks, the figure of US$ 700 million is bandied about. The Chinese, the Germans, the South Africans, former Mozambican president Gubuezza - everyone is involved and the circus is in town.

Maputo skyline from Catembe

The bridge building has already begun with the dropping of 90m concrete shafts into the bay and Catembe is already pimping its ride. even though the country's economic miracle is somewhat less miraculous than last year due to coal price drops, political violence and a complete bottom out in the leisure tourism market.

Nonetheless the talk on the cocktail circuit is tough, the whiskeys are big, the wine is flowing. Construction okes, financiers, the banks, the developers, the key players, they're all there talking MICE market and global finance and positive outcomes. The Chinese-funded Golden Peacock is being built up the road with rooms for hundreds, the Radisson is building twin towers for offices and top end rentals (the most expensive in Africa) next door to the Southern Sun where I am staying (always do, always will) and the deals are going down, the alcohol levels are going up, there are even rumours hat King Mswati of Swaziland also wants a deep sea harbour....  

Thank heavens for Mother Fuckers Bar.

We spill off the passenger ferry from Maputo to Catembe 

Phil and I escape – he’s my Man in Maputo –jump on the passenger ferry and head out of Maputo across the bay to Catembe, whose entire landscape is soon to be rearranged due to The Bridge, which in some ways is a pity really, since it's quiet and charmingly dilapidated. We spill off the ferry and head to the eastern end of Catembe and up a lone sand dune at the top of a sparse village, where it’s almost impossible to reach even in the butchest 4x4 (naturally Phil pulls it off). And here we are at Mother Fucker’s Bar where no one can find me and the beers are ice cold and the views are fine. I can hear the sounds of chicken and children, and Muddafak himself is there, giant bodybuilder that he is, holding a baby of all things. It’s all so blissfully surreal and far away from airports and air-conditioning and the rich world’s portly and pompous. Phew. Bring me a Laurentina por favore. Make it a quart.

Maddafak and his bebe 

Mudda grew up on the streets on Maputo and now has a wife, two children, a chapas (minibus) and his bar. I danced with him once in one of the Rua Bagamoya clubs. All you could see was blonde fluff, my hair,sticking out of his arms. Through Phil, I have known Mudda for years, and he proved to be an invaluable connection when I was researching my guidebook on Maputo. Everyone on the streets knows Mudda. Mention his name in the right places and people treat you with much reverence, especially in the less salubrious places our research took us. He lost the mobility of his knee in a scooter accident  years ago but continues to pump iron and just recently appeared on local television talking about the importance of gym. But he’s happiest up here at Mother Fuckers Bar and we chat about his confidence in the future because of The Bridge and the prospects of expansion although God alone knows how anyone will actually get here.

Right now that’s why I love it so… 

Maddafak and his fabulous bar