This is the sound of the suburbs: A bike essay

Bikes were born in 1818 or thereabouts. Before the bike was the horse. Both have had an important part to play in social commentary.

At the beginning of the 19th century the English reformer William Cobbett documented rural beauty, poverty and inequality that he observed from horseback in parts of the English Midlands, compiling his observations in a little book titled Rural Rides.

In scenes of inequality that have an uncanny familiarity, Cobbett lamented how in Wiltshire he saw “Fine fields and pastures all around; and yet the cultivators of those fields so miserable… Everything had the air of the most deplorable want.” (Rural Rides can be found here).

Just more than a century later, Sol Plaatje got on his bike to record the effects of the 1913 Native Land Act on black communities, describing, for example, how one cold afternoon:

“as we cycled into the ‘Free’ State from the Transvaal… and towards evening the southern wind rose. A cutting blizzard raged during the night and native mothers evicted from their homes shivered with their babies by their sides…”

(Read a wonderful article about Plaatje and his bike here).

Another century on the bike remains a good way to wander and wonder. 

Sounds and sights of the suburbs 

Dawn is a good time to watch Johannesburg waking up. If you get up and out early enough on a suburban Sunday morning, you will encounter a subculture of human beings on their bikes. Many of them seek nature and parks (of which we have plenty), but some of them stick to the streets, which has its own ecosystem.

I enjoy both, but this is a story of city wonders.

Today’s ride starts in the Alberts Farm conservancy, a jewel of Joburg, where you can pause by the 150-year-old graves of the Alberts family and watch the sun climb out from behind the city’s dawn silhouette – 150 years ago the Alberts’s farm fed nascent Johannesburg, and when the farm was partitioned out for housing one of their daughters, Sophia, lent her name to Sophiatown.

Or so a local historian told me.

It’s ironic, because from her grave you can see the bell tower of the Church of Christ the King on the opposite side of the valley; this the church where Bishop Trevor Huddleston’s ashes are interred, the redoubt from where he fought against the demolition of Sophiatown.

Something draws me there and into the unkempt church grounds, which with a reciprocating view back to Alberts in the park, contain a beautiful mosaic of the turbulent priest, with the inscription, “WHAT is the Meaning of LIFE?”.

Good question. We’re still not sure.

From here it’s a biker’s equivalent of a hop, skip and a jump to Ontdekkers Road, one of those calcified arteries (like Louis Botha Ave to the north) that stretches from the city centre all the way out to the city limit. According to the Roodepoort Record, Ontdekkers (meaning Discoverers), was built in the late 1880s, and is the original road to Heidelberg.

It feels to me like an ancient Roman road that time has covered up and time has uncovered; reinvented from generation to generation. I first travelled along it in the early 1980s. In those days it had a brashness and confidence. Precursors to the modern mall, like the Flora Centre, were popping up on its edges. Florida and Roodepoort exuded white suburban power and privilege. Today, it’s tired and wan. 

Once on Ontdekkers, I rode east, up Hurst Hill, through the heart of Brixton, skirting the edge of Mayfair. Then into Braamfontein, passing its procession of dying cemeteries.

In my experience, once your bike and body are in harmony (something that happens during exercise) these sights summon up a soundtrack, and the songs they mysteriously call to mind form a playlist that begins guiding you through the streets.

Thus, in the late 1970s a one-hit-wonder punk band by the name of The Members had a hit with an anthem of ennui called The Sound of the Suburbs. This track accompanied me on my journey into the city’s waking.

The sounds of shop shutters being lifted by little old shopkeepers, as they have done for decades while the city changes around them.

The sounds of rats in rubbish piles awaiting non-collection. Forming the detritus of the city. Making the streets mean.

The sounds of a few runners as they beat the tar: sporting Comrades Marathon caps, secret signals to those who’ve been on that journey with them. A private story of endurance and ambition. Pride. Something you can do even if everything else in life is against you.

The sound of street sleepers climbing out of bus shelters.

The sound of recyclers, already harvesting the streets.

Catching people’s eyes. The smiles exchanged in reply had me thinking of Kae Tempest’s poem,