A SHORT WALK DOWN ROCKY STREET

As QF twenty-one drifted down over the reef and minescapes that define Johannesburg, on a bright Sunday morning in May, the dryness and scrubby trees, interspersed with irrigated patches of suburban green, provoked memories of similar Australian landfalls. But, on the ground, the differences were soon in evidence, starting with the use of buses to ferry passengers to the nineteen-sixties style terminal of this major city airport where faded decor, broken ceiling panels and immigration department computer terminals rimed with dust and greasy smears, spoke of isolation from the mainstream and public sector neglect.

The tellers at the money exchange responded cheerfully to my enquiries about the result of the previous day's Super Ten rugby final between Transvaal and Auckland - the local team had won. As I turned from the counter, a fellow passenger from Australia, a young man with a British passport, roller-skated across the arrival hall and out into Africa, towing his possessions behind him in a shopping jeep of the type favoured by veteran patrons of Melbourne's Victoria and Prahran markets. This was not to be the last nor the only bizarre sight that Pat and I encountered during our brief visit to Southern Africa.

We discovered, soon, that a regular shuttle bus departed from our hotel and we joined the cluster of hopefuls being served both tickets and mugs of either coffee or tea by a former citizen of Doncaster in Yorkshire, who might have been equally (or based on her comments about life in the country) even more at home behind the bar of the Rover's Return in Coronation Street's heyday. By rapidly jettisoning my hard won southern "H's" and with a liberal sprinkling of "Luv's "and deep sounding vowels, I soon established the best affinity a Lancastrian could hope to achieve with a shrewd Yorkshire, matron and we were soon comfortably ensconced in the bus on our way to the Sandton Holiday Inn. The first surprise was the quality of the roads which were free of the wear and tear we are accustomed to. A smoothly interlocking freeway system whisked us away to our destination past neat office buildings and the cleanest and most orderly factories that put our comparable 'junk-yard’ industrial zones to shame. But then a closer look revealed the abundant and consistent presence of razor-wire along walls and fences and security company warning signs on factories and residences alike that promised owners and threatened interlopers with rapid armed response!

Driving in Jo 'burg requires skills in both high-speed freeway driving and a keen sense of direction, as the maps and road signs are not really designed for strangers. Such well-intentioned advice as "the Ml 3 is no longer the Ml 3 " leaves one with a sense of mystery and keen anticipation about the destination of this non-existent highway of "no return!". Your credulity is really stretched to the limit, however, when helpful locals advise you to turn at the next "robot" until you discover that this suggestion of space-age traffic management, beyond even anything that California can offer, merely refers to "traffic lights!".

Walking around is another matter, requiring considerable caution and "street-smarts", especially in the less frequented downtown streets and a definite health hazard to be avoided after dark. This is hard to take when one is accustomed to the comparative freedom and relative security of Melbourne's boulevards and parks and so we were delighted to discover the cosmopolitan suburb of Yeoville, which is rightly reputed to be the counter-cultural capital of South Africa and to experience a short walk down Rocky Street.

In this area, close to the heart of the metropolis where, on Sundays, leaders of the ANC, Communist Party Officials and Afrikaner academics debate issues over cappuccinos in a park commonly known as "Red Square ", most of one’s preconceptions about South African society are challenged, if not turned on their heads. Yeoville is a rather rundown replica of Sydney's Bondi Junction and Rocky Street has all the raffish appeal of Fitzroy’s Brunswick Street in Melbourne. On the pavement, scattered groups of black women were engaged in piecework sewing and tending their young amongst the tables and chairs of cafes offering excellent ices, Italian style pastries and coffees.

In and out of the shops came a contrasting flow of women whose apparent central-European ancestry was somewhat confirmed by their kosher purchases. Then, as if the weaver of this social tapestry had decided to add strong colours to the background threads of black and olive, a schoolboy and girl wearing the sort of uniforms, complete with chalk strip blazers, that might have graced the front of a pre-world war ‘Boy's Own 'comic paper, strode through the throng with the confidence born of privilege and position. Further down the thoroughfare the establishments took on a more flamboyant appearance with garish interiors that were clearly more muted and acceptable to the eyes of after dark patrons who came for the music and whatever other delights were on offer in "Yeoville by night". Black traders gave way to the incongruous sight of white drop-outs, whose hearts might never have left San Francisco: sprawling behind stalls offering the most useless bric-a-brac and ancient Penguin books for sale.

Then as if to absolutely emphasise the topsy-turvy nature of the locale, an unkempt and intemperate white man, whose face bore recent evidence of its collision with the pavement or something even less forgiving, lurched towards us and sought a supporting donation in accents reminiscent of the natives of that cooler land somewhere between Glasgow and the highland line. By this time the street was losing character and the onset of dusk recommended we retrace our steps to retrieve our car and return to the predominantly white residential enclave, where blacks do much of the walking and when driving, feature mostly behind the wheels of delivery vans or trucks.

South Africa is undergoing the most amazing change and if it fails, for many of its people, both black and white and in between, there is nowhere else to go. We came away with sympathy for their struggle to build a new society and if the microcosm of live and let live that is Yeoville and Rocky Street, continues and grows, perhaps there is hope.