Planet africa

Nelsprite, wasn't far, only about our half hour ride with a shared taxi. Sun came through the window roasting me like a sunstroke mongoloid as I listen to music from an MP3 player, watching South Africa pass by. The road was lined with an endless stream of bicyclers riding in the middle of the road with supplies on the back of there retro rusted cycles, women carrying loads of laundry, and sacks of rice on their heads.

Yet again, as it often had before on trips like this, my means of transportation was a mini bus. Witch is the work horse of transportation in the third world. I had been warned in Sabie, where I was coming from, that the mortality rate of passengers on Mini buses in South Africa was so high that you had a better chance being involved in an accident ( or machine gunned by a rival taxi business, witch had been happening) than you did of coming across an IED in Iraq. That in mind, The idea of traveling by an actual work horse tends to be more appealing when the driver of the van I was rideing in keeps looking back at passengers with bloodshot eyes of inebriation while drifting in and out of the traffic lain. But traveling by horse was impossible because anyone in this country who had a horse wouldn’t be smart enough to ride it and would likely tie its legs to the roof of a mini bus along with all the other baggage and chickens. Somehow I was finding my faith while crammed inside a metal death trap like a cow. smells of rotting leather seats and the ever present of aroma of petrol fumes, and body odor we a constant distraction as I bargained with god to forgive my sins in the event that we went into a head on collision, witch could happen any moment .

Lucky enough to have a window, unlucky enough, though to be sitting by the only fat man on the continent. Drops of sticky sweat rolled off his bald black head and into my lap while I cringed with discus and hygienic horror . It seemed unbarring that I shouldn't have to feel every breath the man took as his body expanded against his wheezing lungs. His rib cage pressing against my arms and elbows all the way up to my shoulders like a penguin keeping its young warm in arctic winter. The minibus pulled into the Nelsprite taxi rank. A Line of sheet metal shacks selling mobile airtime minutes and wooden stalls giving haircuts, wrapped the fences and walls around the taxi rank. Young men sat idly in the shade drinking bottles of black label beer. They seem to scorn me as a Whiteface Passed by.

When the minibus came to a stop under a large steel covering, shading the taxi rank I quickly grabbed my bags and walked through the maze of motorized mayhem, and touts selling plates of nuts and tomatoes. Everywhere, people bumped and grinded it into each other as they made their way to different taxis heading for far reaches of South Africa and its neglected townships. All around the Taxi Rank was a distasteful fragrance of overheated bodies, rotting fruit, and hot rusted metal roofs. Then there was the overpowering smell of dry urine and a foul stench of feces. The constant attention of hawkers shoving fruit and nuts in my face and the seemingly unbearable heat bearing down on my shoulders from what felt like a dozen suns. I walked quickly, bypassing men trying to stop me in my path to sell me something or to shove me into a taxi. It was my 3^rd day in Africa and I wanted to walk the streets, get a taste of the smells and delicacies of this new world, the spice of culture that was southern Africa because I had yet to see or feel anything that was recognizable to the pictures and books focusing on the continent.

heading to the town center to find a hotel. I walked outside a shopping center. The colorful markets of southern Africa were represented by walking billboards for M-cell airtime, KFC restaurants, and American sized supermarkets. Signs advertised quick, pain free, same day abortions in the same fashion a struggling musicians advertise guitar lessons. Walking briskly wearing a stern and hostile look on my face I followed a sidewalk until I reached the main street. Traffic moved slowly in the early afternoon due to power cuts that kept the stop lights from working. There, Standing at the side of the main street trying I tried to decide what direction to go first. I observed a number of fixed eyes on me. Young men walking with plastic ShopRite bags in there hands were transfixed by my presents, as if asking themselves ‘what in the hell is this white man doing here, he doesn’t have a clue where hes at‘. Even infant strapped to their mothers backs looked at me condescendingly with question marks in there expressions. Noticing tall, dark, black men walking the streets strangely patting their heads as they passed me. Along the sidewalks of the market more young men stood around Idly with wool hats on there heads and their hands buried deep in the pockets of their thick jackets even though well over 90°. Those hiding in the corners and doorways had a way of communicating without speech, a underhanded, and sly method of whistles and calls. Despite, all the red flags I remained confident I was safe. What possibly was likely to happen in the middle of the afternoon two blocks from the town center . After all I was told Nelsprite was suppose to be a nice safe place.

Making my way down the street towards the city center. Outside the shops women sold fruit out of cardboard boxes and shopping carts freshly taken from the supermarket. Standing behind a small crowd waiting to cross the street a man aggressively tapped me on the shoulder, saying " you dropped something, check here you drop something" pointing his finger back down the sidewalk. Naively concerned with some small parcel that I may have dropped from my backpack, I took a few steps backwards trying to find what I dropped. My eyes searched the side walk, until I figuring that whatever it was that I lost I would be able to live without until it could be replaced. It was too late, the trap had been sprung. Before I could turn around the man clamped his hand around my arm tightly grasping below the elbow with one hand and stuck a knife pointing into my chest. As I reached around with my free arm to push him away I was grabbed on the other side by another man who wrapped his fingers tightly around my forearm. In less than a second I was laying on top of my backpack while 6 men violently tore into my belongings . Quickly going through a my pants and bags stealing anything they could, pulling my wallet from my pocket. one Ripped my camera from my belt while another tugged at my day bag around my chest . adrenalin dumped into my veins while trying to pull myself away. Desperately trying to escape. Futilely and stupidly resisting, until I found myself gazing down the business end of a black chamber of a cold piece pointed between my eyes. The gun , shrouded by a dirty rag. "You move we shoot! You move we shoot!" said the gunman. Strangely, a calmness came over me when I saw the gun. My body relaxed as I watched the thugs pull off possessions. If I was going to get shot it would be over quickly, without pain . There was no reason to resist now, nothing I had was worth a bullet in the mouth I stopped all resistance convinced that at any moment there could be a bloody hole in my face once was. This all happened in a time-lapse of about 20 seconds but when the attackers finally retreated it seemed as if it wend on for several minutes.

the calmness quickly when to rage, watching as the men ran down the street. The Old women selling fruit with small children looked on uncaringly, without an ounce of compassion for what had happened to me. A slew of profanities escaped my mouth as I ran across to the other side of the street in case anyone else was coming after me. frustration overtook me, while I made a scene in the streets. Physically I was unhurt. But understandably upset by what happened. Standing in the center of the street swearing at the top of my lungs, a man standing in front of where I got mugged called out to grab my attention. The man looked Arab holding my wallet in his hands above his head. The Arab had grabbed my wallet which was laying on the sidewalk after it had been pulled from my back pocket. just the money and cards taken out of it and was then dropped after its content pillaged. I ran over to the man thanking him. The mans name was Steve. He was an illegal immigrant from Algeria who owned a shop in Nelsprite just outside where I was mugged. He handed me my wallet and took me into his shop so I could get off the street to someplace safe.

Steve got me a Pepsi from the refrigerator and tossed me a cigarette to calm my nerves. Trying to get my senses about what it happened, shaking from an overdose of adrenaline I couldn’t do anything but laugh, I was going to laugh or cry . I was having a hard time comprehending what it happened. I really couldn’t believe it. they mugged me, ME, how dare they, I cant believe it. The essential parts of me were all fine. I was neither shot or stabbed, surprisingly enough retained the majority of my possessions. I still had my backpack, passport, money, stinky socks. I lost a camera, pocket knife, my wallet which was a decoy, holding old credit card, and a few bills of worthless currency from Jordan, Egypt, Morocco. Along with 50 south African rand or about 6 USD .

Steve asked me if I wanted to stay at his place for a night to witch I agreed. At least I wouldn’t need to walk in Nelsprite after dark. Steve welcomed me to stay in the shop until he was ready to leave late that afternoon. I had had enough excitement for one day and sat outside the shop for some time. .

"These people," said Steve " these are shit people. These people the blacks when they see you, a white man they know you have things, and they will kill you for them, but these people it means nothing to kill you. They will kill you for a cigarette, they'll kill you just because you're white, I see it all the time. You don't even have to be white, the blacks on Friday night fight, and stab each other. A man was shot outside my store two weeks ago. You- you are lucky you're not dead my friend"

I found it strange when I asked Steve why he emigrated to South Africa, he said“because there was too many terrorists in Algeria, now he had to deal with these people. But its better than terrorists. Here I am free"

Puzzled I followed up asking “don’t you ever worry about being robbed or killed if guys like these are all around your shop? What stops them from killing you while you sell them a candy bar?”

“these people, the blacks they know, you don’t fuck with me. You come into my store brotha, it is not I that will be dead. They know me here, I’m not the guy you rob”

Time went by slowly sitting in front of the store, watching men walk down the street swinging there arms like soldiers marching in red square. Steve’s shop was located in a bad part of town ( found that out the hard way) which was for muggings and murder. What happen earlier began to sink in. Inside I was deeply shaken up and afraid. Everything was different from what I had seen in movies and telivions, having your life threatened is a traumatizing event, and a grim reminder of how cold humanity can be. Event like that call upon Raw human emotion that isn’t often summoned in the world back home. There is probably some 5 step emotional ladder that you philologically go through after an event like being mugged but all I was feeling was fear. I was afraid and wanted to go home. I wasn't having fun in Africa anymore.

But somehow I felt compelled to go have a few drinks with my host. It was a old family recipe where I come from for when you are frightened. that recipe to is drink lots of booze. Tried and true as grandmas home made cookies. This time I walk through the streets of Nelsprite like the badest motherfucker in town. If anybody crossed looks with me I stared them down as if there was a blood hatred between two enemies. I followed behind Steve who had ushered me no one would mess with him. Giving me a level of comfort.

We walked to a bar. It was classy and full whites. There was a group of Afrikaans sitting at the bar of course dressed in kaki and short or slicked back hair cuts. It wasn't long before they introduced themselves to me. One was a car salesman named Tom, another was a banker that went by Blair . When I told the men about what had happened every person in the bar except for three of four Zulus sitting in the corner offered to buy me a drink, like some kind of plea for forgiveness on behalf of their homeland. This was really my first impression of the Afrikaans people. Needless to say a whole bar wanting to buy you drinks is a lot better first impression than I got from the blacks, witch of course, was what looked like the NY Nicks NBA basketball team going after the referee after a bad call. When they asked me what happened I explained “they threw me to the ground went through all my pockets and stuck a gun in my face.”

"What kind of gun was it?" Asked Tom the car salesman.

"Some kind of pistol, maybe a 9 mm"

"they are fucking amateurs, I've seen guys get robbed, with automatic weapons and shotguns shoved in their face. Two years ago outside the car lot I saw a man get shot nine times. And all they took off from them was a pack of cigarettes, those bloody kaffers."

“where are going now? What are you going to do in Africa?” asked Blair .

“I really don’t have any idea, im all mixed up about if I want to stay here anymore. Maybe I should think about going home.”

“you know where you should go, you should go to port St. Johns. it’s a lovely place.” said the car salesman.

“ya, what’s there?” I asked.

“a lovely beach, a village. Very quiet by the ocean.”

“sounds nice.”

“yes, but be careful. Its not all safe sometime travelers go there and sometimes they don’t comeback. They just disappear never seen again. But you should go. it’s a nice place”

Well, what kind of place is that? Travelers disappearing? being mugged in the streets? South Africa was a nightmare comparable to the alterative reality Marty Mcfly found in Back to the Future part 2. Why on earth had I come to such a horrible place? This is what I was thinking before I meet Will Laine. Will hadover heard me talking to the car salesman. When they got up to use the bathroom Will came to talk to me. “don’t listen to thoes two, they dont know what he’s talking about.” said Will. Will was born in England and had moved to south Africa to ran a safari tour business in Kruger national park. he had over 20 years of being a guide in the park, and was well respected amongst the other who ran tours.

“ so, you came to see Africa. Tomorrow I will show you Africa…”

I drank with Will while we discussed details about a safari. Steve talked with a friend working at the bar. everyone stayed passed midnight and went home warmly intoxicated. Having put my fears my fears to rest through belligerent drinking befor I got some sleep on Steves floor.

The next morning Steve again brought me to his shop where waited for Will to show up in his truck. I didn’t have to wait long before Will showed up bright and early. I thanked Steve for all he had done for me before I got into Will’s truck. Within an hour the truck stopped in front of one of the most famous wildlife parks the world. Along the way to Kruger Will made a stop where we loaded up on essential game watching supplies, several cases of beer brandy and coke, along with fresh cut jerky like meat called biltong.

Will had an encyclopedia of knowledge about the natural world. was an amazing guide has information and knowledge of wildlife was an upstanding element in our quest to pursue the vast herds of elephants zebras, and impala. Drinking beer, all day will was still able to spot rhino almost a kilometer away. My first real spot of game was lone bull elephant muskeing a sent to attract a mate from glands behind his ears. Will cleared up such monumental zoological questions that I had had senses I first rolled around in my stuffed animal collection. A zebra is white with black stripes. An adult lion's roar can be heard up to five miles away, and warns off intruders or reunites scattered members of the pride. Elephants can communicate using sounds that are below the human hearing range. giraffes are more than six feet tall at birth, When a giraffe is born, it has to fall around six feet to the ground. All day long one factoid after another.

Game watching is funny thing. It starts off slow. Often when you enter places like Kruger you expect to be caught up in the middle of a discovery channel event. But you are lucky to spot anything in the first hour of watching. Your eyes are keen and fixed on the landscape hoping to spot a lion or leopard in the bush. Gaze upon vast herds of Gazelle , and Water buffalo. In reality it takes patents and a good guide. It was almost more entertaining to watch people look at game. Usually when a safari go’er does find critters, its something like a small quad of impala on the side of the road. Your first reaction is to swing out of the window of your car in amazement . Impala! Look! Wow there’s like 4 of them together! safari goers can be seen with bazooka sized camera lenses dressed like Davie crocket with a Gilligan’s Island tourist hat. As the safari goes on into the afternoon. the cutie Impala on the side of the road lost there allure and seemed more in my way. After I have seen 200 of them they almost become an eyesore. ’move it you dumb animals! Get that elephant out of the way I already saw 20 elephants today! I need to see some god damn lions! MOVE!’

Will was keen enough to spot all of the big five while we ventured deep into the park. Lion, buffalo, leopard, elephant and Rhino. Just before sunset we had a great front seat to a pride of lions napping in the bus as a family of girraphs unknowingly wandered into there territory, causing a fierce stair down. Caught up in the drama of the showdown will saw a line of cars and tourists driving to the camp. Wanting to keep them away he picked up a bird watching book on his dashboard and pointed to the trees until the safari goers passed us by so we could enjoy nature without having some moron blast ’rock me like a hurricane’ while they tried to game watch.

The displeasure of being mugged in broad daylight had faded away under the red sun of the African savanna and the call of beasts late into the night. This was what I came for. Bats swooping up bugs in the dusk as Will and I eat Hot Dogs by fire light .I had half a week under my belt so far in an adventure across the darkest continent. But already I was far wiser than when I boarded a plain bound to Africa. Beyond the troubles and chaos, The violence, and poverty there were many lessons of humanity still be learned but next time I would be ready.