Alas, the only action my specifically-purchased "wedding" lingerie saw that night was what was going on between the pages of the book I read for almost five hours before slipping into my pajamas. (I feel compelled to clarify that it was not even a remotely sexy book, but an infuriatingly sad novel about an oppressed child bride and former bacha posh in Afghanistan).
I woke up the next morning with high hopes that Steve would be feeling better. Being in South Africa for the first time, with no idea if or when we would have another opportunity to come back, I was pretty keen on making the most of our one free day in Johannesburg. Moreover, I was determined to wring out some semblance of a mini-honeymoon from our brief trip.
The thing is, everyone from the desk clerk at our hotel to the temple volunteers had tossed out liberal safety warnings from the time we had arrived and advised against most of the sights and activities I had researched before our arrival. I was used to the precautionary measures advised in Cameroon, namely not going out unnecessarily at night, and certainly never alone. But the idea of it being so dangerous to walk around, together, in broad daylight in a country not currently at war was baffling, to say the least.
After dropping off my in-laws for another day at the temple, Steve and I had the driver take us to Nando's for an early lunch and to figure out our next steps. The driver's suggestion? A sightseeing tour on the red double-decker hop-on, hop-off busses. Tacky tourist cliché, maybe, but a safe bet, he said.
I studied the route map online, charting a course that would take us to Constitution Hill, the apartheid museum, the suburb of Soweter (the former outer-city township to which all black residents of the Joburg area were exiled under apartheid) and the city's cultural hub neighbourhood of Barmfontein. If all went well, we would get to see more of the city than I could have hoped.
Of course, if you have been paying attention to how things tend to go for Steve and me, you need not be told that all did not exactly go according to plan.
It started off very promising. We enjoyed a scenic ride through Rosebank and the city's other most affluent neighbourhoods, winding our way up hilly sections past gated mansions to impressive vantage points overlooking the cities. I marveled as we hurtled down stunning tree-lined streets where 150-year old Jacarandas, once imported from Argentina, branched out in a canopy across the roadway, creating a breathtaking tunnel of light purple blossoms.
We hopped off at Constitution Hill, the former prison and military fort where world-famous people like Nelson Mandela and Mahatma Gandhi were once incarcerated. We explored the site (now a living museum and location of South Africa's Constitutional Court) and enjoyed its unique 360 degree view of the city, including a direct line of sight to the temple.
The trouble was, it was summer in South Africa. Not particularly hot, and definitely not humid, but very, very sunny. And my dumb, pale a$$ was not wearing sunscreen.
By the time we boarded the next bus, and I insisted once again on sitting on the coverless upper deck, I was sporting a nasty sunburn that was rapidly shifting from tolerably pink to violently red. Too stubborn to move, despite my husband's repeated suggestions, I unfolded the sightseeing map and tried to cover my painfully prickling arms, ever insisting that I was fine.
My annoying and bossy (or, sweet and protective, depending on who you ask) husband attempted to put his foot down: No more stops! We would ride the bus straight to the end of the line and take a taxi back to our hotel immediately. I needed to be indoors and resting, he said. Obviously, I was not down with this plan.
In need of a bathroom anyhow, I managed to talk him into a stop at the Gold Reef Casino. There we cooled down a little with A/C, water and ice cream, and I tried to bargain my way into staying out by saying we could travel in the enclosed lower section of the bus, but he would not be swayed. I glowered at him as we passed the apartheid museum stop, briefly entertaining the thought that I would never forgive him for ruining what little bit of a "honeymoon" we were getting.
Back at the hotel, with limited entertainment option (read: none), I was still indignant and peeved. We are in South Africa and we are going to spend our time watching bad TV?! So what if I'm sunburnt? What's done is done. it's not like it's going to get any worse!
Now, I must admit that soon after returning to the hotel, in the throes of mild heat exhaustion, I was secretly relieved that my husband had insisted, though I certainly wasn't going to tell him that. There's a good chance he saved me from full-fledged heat stroke. As it was, my second-degree sunburns bubbled and blistered before night fell and my skin remained an angry red hue for nearly six weeks.
Despite both of us being in moderately sore states, we did manage to find another "activity" to keep us occupied that evening, and enjoyed a lazy delivery pizza dinner from the "comfort" of our vinyl mattress. You know, super and classy and shiz, like honeymooning pros.
On our last morning in Johannesburg, we got a tiny glimpse into the city's notorious taxi violence and turf wars when we were headed for one last session at the temple. The Uber we ordered didn't drive right into the hotel's gated parking lot. Taxi drivers waiting on the street for fares came over and bodily prevented us from getting into the vehicle, then began throwing rocks at our driver's vehicle to get him to take off. They then had the gall to think we'd choose to get in a vehicle with them. No dice!
Eventually, we made it to the temple and enjoyed a good dose of serenity and peace before a whole lot of confusion at the airport.
Long story abbreviated, I was on a much later flight out than Steve and my in-laws, though I would catch up with them in Rwanda for the final leg back to Cameroon. They were on a complex cross-listed flight and the ticket agents could not find the appropriate confirmation information in their airline's system. I have a delightful picture of my tired, very bored-looking mother-in-law sitting on the floor in the middle of the airport, slouched deeply against a pillar, legs splayed in front of her, waiting for everything to get sorted out. It took about an hour of "advocating" and three or four different individuals to finally get everything sorted out so that they could get checked in and sent off through security.
Meanwhile, I had gotten a couple confusing emails about my own flight. I knew I was supposed to leave some 12 hours after Steve and my in-laws (which I would get to spend mostly in the seating-challenged check-in hall, waiting to be able to go through security) but I had gotten emails saying my flight was currently boarding. Of course, none of the ticket agents were able to shed any light on the situation, so I anxiously scoured the departure boards again and again to make sure I wasn't somehow mistaken about my takeoff time.
I moved to the secure area as soon as possible and found a padded row of seats to try to nap on, getting fitful bouts of roughly 10 minutes at a time as my flight got delayed again and again. My two hour turn around in Kigali was shrinking fast and I was getting more and more anxious I was going to get stuck in Rwanda by myself.
We landed in Kigali the next morning, just 11 minutes before my next flight was due to take off. My jaw clenched painfully as I waited in the security line to get through to my connecting flight, while announcements over the loudspeaker heralded the final boarding call. Fortunately, it seems there were several passengers from the Johannesburg flight that needed to make the transfer, so they held the plane for us.
I boarded the plane, spotted Stee and made my way towards him. I could see my stress and relief echoed in his expression. Even more than nearly missing the flight, I was feeling the weight of our imminent separation and the frustration at having lost two precious hours together. We would have just a couple more hours on the ground in Douala before my flight home to Canada, and I still had to repack all my bags and get organized. It was not our first such goodbye, and we could be almost certain it wouldn't be our last, what with the prospect of the immigration process still looming ahead of us, but as newlyweds of just two weeks, it was certain to be a most bitter goodbye.
We both took our seats and exhaled heavily. If we were drinkers, I think we'd have been asking for doubles right about then, 9 a.m. or not.
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