Tsotsis when they're alone

I’m an American who grew up in apartheid South Africa. Planning a recent two-month return visit, I became more than a little alarmed from what I read on IOL & other news providers, the sour commentary in forums, the dire warnings posted on embassy sites about crime, violence and – shudder - crime-with-violence. Yet during the trip I and three female family members were everywhere treated graciously, and crime was limited to the theft of a rented cell phone. We were careful—maybe we were lucky. Johannesburg’s razor wire was unnerving, but we never felt ourselves at imminent risk. Still . . .

An ambient white anxiety kept us more on edge than probably necessary, as - white ourselves - we interrelated with hosts who were usually white also. (People from other races were always at ease, ranging from relaxed to apathetic.) It was present, unspoken, in the glance of the B&B owner at check-in; it was there, especially, late at night after glasses of Klipdrift and hours of chat. I’ve concluded, all things considered, that the assignment of risk to travel in South Africa is of a perceived risk to white people and that it is derived essentially from white South Africans' own habitual fear of being overwhelmed by the black presence.

On our arrival in Johannesburg, a bottle shop proprietor my own age at the Norwood Mall welcomed me back to the neighborhood after a 58-year absence. He explained why my old street in Highlands North was now walled and wired: The white and the black societies were now mixing. "That's a good thing in a way," he said cheerfully. "On the other hand, you have to keep a sharp look out: Look behind you, but also look on your left, look on your right, look ahead. You must be very careful now."

And so it went, the length and breadth of our journey - that ironic, existential, seemingly characteristic mix of high-minded pride in the new arrangement and anxiety for possible approaching dangers.

The nation's press (white-owned?) extols the new Constitution, but a subtext of reportage on crime, politics and national management says it’s not working out and things may be on the verge of getting much worse. Crime has been sensationalized; crimes of black on white transmit a special buzz that sputters on in reader commentary, alternately foreboding and contemptuous. The foreign press, always ready to be alarmed by Africa, takes up the cry. Foreign governments - especially those of Mother Britain and such erstwhile settler offspring as Australia and the U.S. - respond with websites portraying a dangerous, even savage environment where the visitor is beset by ferocious animals, roads perilous at night, exotic scams and sudden violence. No-go zones are everywhere, the UK warning its wayfarers: “Avoid isolated beaches and picnic spots across South Africa and stay in company.”

That, folks, is extreme advice. Taking it would have deprived me of the glorious open beaches at Amatigulu and Dwesa nature reserves - the joy of skipping afoot through jammed traffic at the Mandini Spar taxi rank in kwaZulu vainly seeking a liquor store still open. It's advice that comes at the extreme of a state of mind. I note that Rand people, when they move elsewhere—Oudtshoorn, say—take their walls and razor wire with them—to the consternation of locals, for whom “crime” has not been a serious problem.

I'd put it to white South Africans, then, to question the extent to which their public-relations “problem” is being self-created. That said, I must in fairness confess to a brush or two, in my brief visit, with existential confusion-makers on my own. There were the two follow-up press reports: The taxi rank in kwaZulu, five days later, had a shoot-out between rival companies, in which four by-standers (and only two principals) were wounded. A week after spending several quiet, rainy days at Kleinmond on the southern Cape coast, I read in the Argus an account of the senseless murder of a nice elderly white couple, a block or two from our flat. Close, I figured, but no cigar. Then there was the train to Jo’burg, something I’d argued with myself before deciding to risk it for the price.

“Train! You’re taking a train?” a 70-ish Afrikaner said to me, astounded –thunderstruck - outside our chalets at Franschhoek. “I wouldn’t take the train if you put a gun to my head!”

The train proved safe enough, however. At a station on the outskirts of Jo’burg, through my window, one young man wearing a bright yellow “Security” vest was instructing another in the workings of the AK-47 that was changing hands for the new shift. I didn’t duck as the weapon was waved around. I didn’t take their picture, either. But there was still the taxi ride.

Leaving Park Station six hours late for the airport, our driver’s ancient Mercedes broke down immediately in what even the driver said was a no-go zone, somewhere in the disorderly Central District, on a Friday night. The car also was out of fuel, he said. He coasted into a corner service station teeming with bodies. This was a set-up, I thought for a sweaty moment as the bonnet went up. Here – saved for our final moment in South Africa - was the advertised horror we’d avoided so far.

But it wasn’t a set-up. He got the vintage vehicle going again. We sought petrol elsewhere and made it through Customs to complete a safe, successful exit from South Africa. Maybe it’s significant that what kept me hopeful through this worst scare of our visit was its familiarity: Jo’burg has always been dangerous – depend on it. That was one. Another was the driver’s age – like mine and the car’s. And the third was the music playing softly on the car radio in the background. Tsotsis, when they’re alone, don’t do gospel. Do they?