Joburg, Five Days, Zero Regrets

We didn’t plan Johannesburg. Not really. The weather planned it for us. One too many grey mornings, one too many cups of tea spent staring at a forecast with absolutely nothing to offer. Somewhere in the middle of all that drizzle, the idea surfaced. Not a beach. Somewhere with a bit of grit. A place with history written into its streets, that would hand us something real and send us home with stories rather than just tan lines. We opened a laptop, found some flights and clicked confirm before anyone could raise a sensible objection.

In peak lastminute.com fashion, we had just booked a very short half-term break to a city most of our friends have only ever mentioned in the same sentence as crime statistics.

Johannesburg. Joburg. “Are you sure?” they asked, with a tone that meant, “Have you completely lost it?” What will you do there? Will you be safe? And five days, really? We heard them, nodded, packed anyway. And then Joburg quietly proved almost all of us wrong.

Monday landed with the smell of tarmac, jet fuel and an overnight flight still heavy in our legs. We cleared customs and stepped into the warm, bright air and the warnings followed us straight through arrivals.

Don’t venture out into the unknown. Stay within the hotel boundary. Stay alert at all times.”

By afternoon, I was strolling through the city, phone in hand, like an irresponsible extra in a safety video. Joburg, it turned out, hadn’t read the same script.

We wandered through the banking district first, where glass towers and sharp suits make Joburg look like a shinier twin of Canary Wharf. The difference is that people greet you properly here, with eye contact and actual warmth, instead of pretending you are part of the furniture. From there, we drifted towards an art centre, the kind of place you find when you are not entirely sure where you are going but trust the colours to guide you. Inside, the walls were full of bold work: politics, history, everyday township life, things that make you feel the city’s pulse.

Then there was Melrose, home for the week (or maybe less). The neighbourhood felt almost suspiciously calm and clean, like a film set. Wide, leafy streets. Cafés that serve you coffee as if you are a regular, even when you are clearly not. By the second evening I caught myself doing something I never do in London: walking around without purpose. I felt safer there than I often do at home and, for once, didn’t feel compelled to mentally cable‑tie my phone to my arm.

Whatever Joburg was supposed to be, according to the headlines, it was already becoming something else in front of us. Maybe we were staying within the safer parts of the city, but Nelson Mandela Square felt no different.