Ponte City’s grand opening was in 1975. Standing at 54 storeys and 173m, she was the tallest building in Africa for 48 years straight. She was beaten by a skyscraper in Egypt, measuring a mere 5m taller.
Her fall from grace to grimy led her to being declared the first vertical slum in Africa. The original occupancy rate of this building was 1 000 people. When it was declared a slum, 8 000 people lived in Ponte City without running water or electricity.
Witness accounts describe a time when the 11th and 12th floors were used to house a large brothel, along with one of the parking levels. And many can’t forget the images of garbage piled up to the 14th floor. The tower of rubbish took three years to clean. Twenty-three bodies were found inside.
Trucks could not access the area, so all the garbage was removed by a team of workers. Since 2014, the internal windows have been welded shut.
The building underwent a revamp right before the 2010 World Cup. Today it is home to more than 2 000 residents.
I have driven past and written about the building for many years and finally getting inside to see the interiors for myself was a full-circle moment for me.
When writing about Ponte, I have to be honest but I also have to be kind.
When I entered the site, my tour guide told me not to worry if I heard a loud bang because residents sometimes threw nappies and rubbish out the windows.
When we walked inside, I was pleasantly surprised by the security and biometric setup. They’ve also installed 480 cameras inside and around the building, with 24-hour security.
I signed in. On the other side of the turnstiles was a box with keys on the floor. A simple system for schoolchildren to pick up their keys and get into their homes if their parents are at work.
We then took a ride up to what was once a prized penthouse suite. Today, it’s been converted into an entertainment room with a bar for residents to use. Plenty of engagements, baby showers and after-work get-togethers are held here.
The view from the top is bittersweet. To think that back in the ’90s, you could rent the penthouse I was standing in for R800 a month. It would include: four beds, two lounges, a braai area, sauna and jacuzzi. It would also be fully furnished.
While Ponte’s story is productive, her surroundings remain in shambles. Bless Berea because she has a long way to go.
We also viewed the community centre. Teachers volunteer to support children with their homework after school. It’s a colourful classroom where children can learn.
On the ground floor, there is convenience retail for the residents. I visited the fruit and veg seller, fast food and takeaway shop, meat shop, tailor and pizza shop.
Then it was time to visit the infamous core of Ponte. Built on a slanted hill, the circular core design was essential for the terrain. Walking down the cold metal staircase to get to the eerie, dark centre, you immediately feel a veil of murk move over you. Finally, you stand on the rock in the centre of Ponte.
Suddenly, a bang.
Someone threw an entire bag of garbage into the middle of where we were standing. The tour guide assured me that someone would clean that; they clean up every day.
Remember when my tour guide told me not to worry if I hear a loud bang, since residents sometimes threw nappies and rubbish out the windows? While standing there, one of the residents on the lower levels (without sealed windows) did.
There’s only one message I can take away from that: If you can’t respect your own place of residence, what chance do we have as a society?
Standing inside the hollow core of Ponte felt strangely symbolic of what has happened to the Johannesburg CBD over the past few decades. A place that was once ambitious, modern and proud, hollowed out by neglect, mismanagement and people who stopped believing that the space belonged to them.
And yet, at the same time, Ponte refuses to die.
The building was recently put up for auction and received multiple offers. The highest non-suspensive offer received was R170 million. There were higher offers of around R250m but the building remains unsold, which means the seller probably wants more.
The tour ends where it began, in the underground parking lot. Here you find a cluster of resident cars, many of them abandoned. Some have been standing there for years. The owners left the city, left the country or never came back.
One car in particular caught my eye. It had been stripped of everything — engine gone, interior gone and windows smashed. Just a shell occupying its parking bay as if someone might return for it one day.
That image stayed with me longer than anything else I saw in the building. Because Ponte is full of shells. Shells of flats that were once luxury homes. Shells of businesses that once served a thriving neighbourhood.
Shells of systems that were supposed to protect the city but slowly stopped working.
But it is also full of people who are trying. Children who are collecting their house keys after school. Teaching volunteers are helping with homework in the community centre. Residents are hosting baby showers in what used to be a penthouse. And security guards are watching hundreds of cameras to keep order inside a building that once had none.
Ponte is not just a story about urban decay. It is a story about what happens when a city loses control and what it takes to build that control back.
The difference between a skyscraper and a slum is not height, design or money. It’s whether the people inside care what happens to it.
Walking out of Ponte that day, I couldn’t stop thinking that Johannesburg and Ponte City have something in common.
Both were once symbols of possibility and both went through years that nearly broke them.
And yet, both are standing, waiting to see whether the people inside are ready to rebuild.
The city landmark is not just a story about urban decay. It is also about what happens when a city loses control and what it takes to get that back
