Ch. 12: A Glint of Light in Woodstock

“Avoid conspicuous clothing.” Advice from page three of my passport. My passport, which has no clue where I am, except that I’m not in the United States. I wonder if South African passports say the same thing, or if it’s only America that would have such a superiority complex. You want to go out there? asks Uncle Sam, turning his pointer finger to the dark beyond. The wind picks up and thunder grumbles from somewhere over the Atlantic. I won’t stop you, he says, finger trembling. But please, avoid conspicuous clothing.

Lucky for me, I prefer earth tones. But I do have an orange backpack.

On Saturday I decided that it was about time to inject some fresh energy into my music collection. I planned to head downtown to the fabled Musica superstore at the Waterfront. Despite my best efforts, I wouldn’t make it to the Waterfront. That is, until today, when I found myself sitting in a bank hoping I would not be defeated by bureaucracy, and that I would be able to afford my groceries after all.

Just before I left for the music store, I got a call from Cizzi, a Swedish student who was my housemate briefly in Observatory. She wanted to know if I would join her at an organic food market at the Old Biscuit Mill, a touristy establishment in Woodstock. I wasn’t sure where it was exactly, but she said it was just a walk down Lower Main from where we used to live. It was on my way to the Waterfront, and I needed food anyway. So I hopped on a taxi, which in Cape Town means a minibus that goes back and forth along a certain route, at times stuffing in more passengers than there is enough oxygen to support. But this one was pretty empty, so I was at leisure to talk with the man who collects the money. “Do you know where the Old Biscuit Mill is?” I asked. He showed no sign of recognition, and in Afrikaans he consulted with the driver who showed no sign of recognition. They arrived at a conclusion. He promised to drop me off close by. As we continued along Main Road past anything within walking distance of my old house, I began to get antsy. But he insisted he would take me there. As the taxi was slowing down, the coloured woman next to me turned to me. “Do you want to get robbed? You’re a white guy, and only coloured people live here.” Neither of these points was news to me, so I chose to continue, but to listen to the driver’s advice: “keep your belongings close.” It wasn’t hard – I was wearing an orange backpack, which couldn’t have been closer to my back. He said the Old Biscuit Mill was right there, and pointed a short way down a side street.

I took this short street and rounded the corner. There, with boarded windows and chipped paint, was The Biscuit Factory. I wondered how far I was from my actual destination. I called Cizzi. “What street are you on?”

“Can’t find the name.”

“Do you see train tracks?” I did. She didn’t.

I knew I was at least still in Woodstock, so I followed this street back in the direction I had come. It was parallel to Main Road, and busy enough that I wasn’t too concerned in broad daylight. I ran into a couple who actually knew the place. They told me I was about 3 km away. The midday sun had already brought a shine to my forehead. Forget it, I said, I’ll just go back to Main Road, catch another taxi, and find that music store. I took out my phone and sent a text message to Cizzi informing her of my plans. On Table Mountain, tourists with binoculars would have seen a tiny explosion of light coming from Woodstock as the sun glinted off of my phone’s display. “That one’s on borrowed time,” they would have said to each other. That is, if they had read the warnings in their passports.

Putting the phone back in my pocket, I started down another side street toward Main Road. I heard anxious shouts from a group of people sitting in front of a shop. They were waving frantically at me, don’t go down there. A shirtless man with a crystal hanging from a cord around his neck approached me.

“Where are you from?” He asked. I told him.

“So you’ve heard of the Bronx. You’re in the Bronx right now. Come sit by my sister’s shop for a few minutes. I’ll go fetch a shirt and I’ll take you to Main Road.”

I appreciated his looking out for me, but I had no reason to believe he wasn’t one of the ones he was warning me about. I was just a few blocks from the side street I had taken to get here, which was less residential and more open. I thanked him and told him I would just go back the way I came.

A few steps in that direction, I heard the same question from another man. “Where are you from?” He was a big guy, with two diamondlike earrings. Still walking, I told him where I was from. Next thing I knew, he plunged his hand into my pocket and pulled out my cell phone. In his other hand appeared a big, jagged knife. He pulled my orange backpack off my back without much difficulty. He retreated, and another man walked toward me with eyes that said, you don’t want any trouble, do you? I didn’t but, remembering my beloved sound recorder in my bag, I shouted after my assailant, “There’s stuff in there you don’t want, man.” Then I turned and kept walking, as the other man was drawing closer. Again, I heard a chorus of voices drawing my attention. This time it was a group of people at a filling station. What did they want? And would this guy intercept me if I tried to go to them? Then I saw that they were gesturing at my orange backpack, which was now in the hands of the shirtless man. So I crossed the street and went to this little shop, where I was given back my bag. “Check to see if anything’s missing,” said the shirtless man.

“Just my wallet,” I said, eyeing the sound recorder with relief. He and his brother had approached the guy, but when they saw his knife, they had backed off. He had dropped my bag, and taken only my wallet. Was he afraid of the stuff he didn’t want? I can only guess. I was given a crate to sit on, and I listened as the locals cursed the drug addicts for tarnishing the image of Woodstock and of Cape Town. The shirtless man’s brother escorted me to the police station, where I ran into a filmmaker I had met at a party. He had told me he was doing a documentary on crime in Cape Town. Was he here for research? I asked him. No, his car had been broken into.

After riding around Woodstock in a police cruiser looking for the perpetrator, I wound up back at the station. After waiting awhile, an officer dropped three cards on the table: two debit cards and my Eagle Scout ID, which also has raised lettering but is less useful at an ATM. For some reason they were all bent in the middle. So, where was the diamond-eared man? They had let him go. Something about the card companies and subpoenas. I gave my statement, and listed everything that had been in my wallet. My driver’s licence, I remembered, was not among them. I had used it to get my UCT ID the day before, and apparently had left it at the desk in the Leslie Social Sciences building. On Monday I went back for it. They still had it, and I told them my story. “Should have left your wallet here,” quipped the man behind the desk.

As with any misfortune which can be written about in this tone so soon after its occurrence, there are elements of fortune within it. Thanks to my absent-mindedness, I don’t have to go back to the DMV in June. Thanks to raised lettering, I still have my Eagle Scout ID. Thanks to the residents of the community, who publicly antagonized a violent man who probably knows where they live, I got my bag back and made it safely to the police station. And thanks to my parents dropping everything to help me, I did receive the money wire I was waiting for in the bank today.

While the implication is absurd that everywhere outside the U.S. is more dangerous than everywhere inside the U.S., it’s true that Americans tend to stick out here, and we tend to be targets. Preventing and preparing for crime is part of the everyday thought routines of people living in urban South Africa. While we’ve all learned that prevention is priceless, we also know that fear is futile. As soon as I get my cards working, I’ll jump in a taxi again. And this time I’ll come back with CDs.