Tag Archives: Unmitigated Chaos

TIA: This is Africa

Long bus rides may not be the most pleasant experience, but it’s usually not difficult to merely buy a bus ticket, right? Well, not everywhere. As Leonardo DiCaprio says in Blood Diamond, “TIA, right mate? This is Africa.”

Chris and I arrived in Johannesburg on a November Sunday around one in the afternoon. We took the metro to Hatfield, a student-centered suburb of Pretoria, and opened our Coast to Coast backpacking book, a pocket-sized, pink- and purple-striped guide to hostels in SA, Namibia, Mozambique, Zimbabwe, Zambia, Swaziland, and Lesotho. There was one hostel listed in Pretoria, on Arcadia Street. We asked the first guy we saw, a young, long-haired and bearded backpacker type, where it was. He said it was near but he wasn’t sure where. Then, he did something strange.

He fixed us with a steely gaze and said, “You should take a cab. I wouldn’t walk around with backpacks like that, looking like tourists. I wouldn’t really walk anywhere, actually. Welcome to South AfricaThis is South Africa. You’ll be mugged.”  Sufficiently scared out of our wits, we said thanks, and walked across the street to ask a taxi driver to take us to the address, and he said it would be 50 rand (about $7). Now, in the US, seven bucks for a cab ride is chump change. But in South Africa, you never accept the first price.  We said we’d pay him 30, but he refused.  We walked away in hopes he’d call us back, falling over himself apologizing and offering us a ride for 35 or 40 rand. But he let us walk.

Just then, a car pulled up beside us. We backed away. Cars pulling up beside you near Johannesburg is the kind of thing you read in newspaper stories under headlines like “American Backpackers Still Missing.”  The window opened, and the shaggy-haired guy we saw before stuck his head out. His dad, driving the car, had a classical guitar performance at three, and it was currently 2:15, so he had just enough time to drop us off.

We arrived at the hostel, and were greeted by the lovely Yzelle and Maj (pron. Mae), who generously offered us the private room for the same price as the dorm, because they had had their first theft at the hostel a week before and feared for people’s safety. This was the second robbery comment in the past 15 minutes, and Chris and I began to seriously doubt what we were doing hanging around there.

But, when in Africa, as in life, you can’t just shy away from challenges. And anyway, we wanted to book a bus to Nelspruit, OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERAthe gateway to Kruger National Park, home to the largest concentration of safari wildlife on the planet. Yzelle and Maj told us that, since it was Sunday, the ticket office was closed, but that we could still buy the tickets on Computicket.com, a third-party site like Ticketmaster.

We found a bus leaving Pretoria at 7:15 the next morning, and booked it using my credit card. The fine print at the end of the confirmation page read, “Please pick up tickets using the credit card of purchase and a photo ID at any supermarket counter, as tickets purchased on Computicket cannot be picked up at the bus station.” Chris and I looked at each other, stunned.

I called Computicket to explain the situation, hoping they’d come riding in on their silver stallions to save the day, just like any respectable American business would do.  The recorded voice answered the phone.

“Our offices are open from Monday to Saturday, and are closed on Sunday.”

TIA, mate.

We asked Yzelle and Maj if we could just pick the tickets up at the station if we explained what happened. They shook their heads. “If you had bought the ticket on the bus company’s website, you could have picked it up at the station.”

We started. Why did they tell us to book the ticket on Computicket, then?

To further the problem, in South Africa, bus tickets are commonly sold at the lotto ticket counter in supermarkets, as the recorded voice had said. Why? TIA. The only solution now was to get to the supermarket. We asked Yzelle and Maj where the nearest supermarket was.

“They’re all closed, I think. It’s three forty-five, and they all close at three on Sundays.”

By now, we were fuming mad. We thought that picking up the tickets the next morning was our only option. The metro opened at 5 AM. Good. But the supermarkets opened at 8. There was no way we would be able to pick up our tickets in time to catch the 7:15 bus.

“Except…” Yzelle began, “there IS a Shop Rite that’s open until 8 today down at the Menlyn Mall. You could try there.”

“Great, where’s that?” I asked.

“About 12 kilometers down the road.”

I stood with my mouth agape. I checked the map. There was Menlyn mall, all the way in the bottom right-hand corner of the map.  A taxi ride would have cost 70 Rand (9 bucks) each way, or we could walk the 8 miles, or we could try to hitchhike. Chris was steaming, slamming his hands on the bed in our room, furious that the good deal we got on the room was now ruined by heinous bureaucracy. There had to be another way.

I asked Maj if there was a bike I could borrow. She took one out, a small mountain bike built more like a tank, with a seat and handlebars meant for someone six inches shorter than me, and an old enough model that you needed a screwdriver to adjust the bars or seat, provided you could even turn it through the rusty metal caked to the columns.

I looked at this sad excuse for a bike, its chain hanging limp from the gears.

“I’ll take it,” I said.

I fixed the chain, tested the brakes (the rear brake was almost nonexistent, the front one strong – not the combination you want), and set out to bike it. 8 miles was nothing. I’d done forty before, plenty of times. I wrapped my credit card in two bills – a fifty and a ten – and, remembering what the shaggy haired guy said about not going anywhere for fear of being mugged, stuck it in my underwear.

The first danger I encountered was that in South Africa, they drive on the left. Obviously, this also means that you ride your bike on the left, and use your right hand to signal. This was a test of my concentration and balance, especially since the rear, safer brake was still located by my right hand. I navigated the first few turns on side streets near the hostel until I felt comfortable making tight left turns and wide, sweeping rights. It was weird, but I got the hang of it. Eventually, though, I had to turn onto the main road.

I rode along in the left hand lane, a bizarre feeling if I’ve ever had one, and got buzzed by two successive cars, each one passing within six inches of me. It dawned on me that mugging might not be the only unsafe thing about South Africa. Also, I wasn’t wearing a helmet, a big no-no. I immediately moved up to the curb, and, in poor cyclist etiquette, rode past pedestrians on the sidewalk the rest of the way.

Forty-five minutes later, I locked my bike up at the Menlyn Park mall and walked in to “Entrance 7.” There was no giant “Directory” sign like you see in the US, and the information booth was empty. With at least seven entrances, it was going to take me hours to find the Shop Rite. I stopped a young couple and asked where the supermarket was. They pointed over my shoulder.

“Right there!” the guy said, with a laugh.

I smacked my palm to my forehead, said thanks, and headed over to a supermarket called Checker. It wasn’t Shop Rite, but I had picked up bus tickets at Checkers before, so I knew it would be ok.

Twelve glass doors stared at me, spanning the front of the store under the enormous sign. The eleven on the right were closed, and a middle aged lady in an official Checker uniform was ushering a long line of shoppers out of the door on the far left. I walked up.

“The store’s closed,” she said.

No. No! It couldn’t be closed! This was our only way to get the tickets.  I told her I was just picking up tickets, that I had bought them already and just needed five minutes. She said sorry, the store was closed and I’d have to come back tomorrow. I started to launch into my story of the early bus and the supermarkets not being open in time, but she just shook her head and pointed for me to leave.

Disgusted, I knew I had to think fast. I found a security guard and asked where the Shop Rite was. Yzelle and Maj said it was open until 8.

“There’s no Shop Rite here. Only Checker.”

I gritted my teeth, thanked the man, and marched back to the far left door of Checker, determined to talk my way into this or die trying. As an English teacher, I have faith in my ability to talk my way into and out of just about anything. I’m good at persuasive arguments and Socrates’ rhetorical appeals of ethos, logos, and pathos. If ever there was a time to pull out all the stops, this was it.

Once again, I pleaded with her. It would take two minutes, but I HAD to get those tickets. It was of the utmost importance for national security and the stability of the space-time continuum, or something. I don’t really recall what I said, but I do remember that she frowned at me.

“Go quickly,” she said, pointing to her left. “The counter’s over there.”

I ran across forty checkout lines until I arrived at the lotto counter. I asked for my tickets, and slapped my credit card down on the desk.

“Photo ID?” the woman asked.

I stuck my hand into my, well, the side of my underwear, and pulled out the fifty and the ten. No license. No passport.

“I don’t have my photo ID,” I said, letting the sweaty, crumpled bills fall lazily on the counter.

The woman looked at the money. “No photo ID, no ticket.” I died a little inside. I fished around in my mind for what to do. And then I remembered: TIA. A little bribe never hurt anybody. I had heard a story that morning from a guy who had given us a lift to Pretoria that he had gotten stopped by a cop for driving without a license, a serious offense with a penalty of 1,000 rand ($133) among other things. He had slipped seven rand (a buck) out of his pocket, handed it to the cop, and the cop said, “Have a nice day,” got in his squad car, and drove away.

Pushing the money across the counter, I pleaded my case. I could tell her the names and birthdays of both passengers, the route, and the departure and arrival times of the bus, even sign my signature to match it to my credit card, but I HAD to get those tickets.

She considered it for a moment. “I have to ask my supervisor.”

She said something in Afrikaans, one of the official languages of South Africa, a mix between Dutch, German, English, and French, and the supervisor turned to me.

“Sir, are you telling me that I have to lose my job just so you can have two bus tickets?”

“No, no,” I said, explaining the situation once again.

“There’s a lot of credit card fraud in this country, sir. I can’t let you do that.”

I pleaded, glancing at the soggy sixty rand still sitting on the counter. It looked less like a good bribe now than when I had pulled it out.

She narrowed her eyes and asked me where I was from. “The USA,” I said.

“I can tell from your accent.”

She proceeded to ask me what I was doing in South Africa, how I liked it, how long I had been here and when I was going home, no doubt checking my story for legitimacy, to see if I had to fish around for details or if I would slip up and not be able to answer the questions. They came a mile a minute, but I stayed cool under pressure and answered every one.  “Travelling, great and beautiful country, about two weeks, and unsure, because heading to Mozambique and Malawi soon.”

She still wasn’t convinced. “I promise you,” I said, “the bus leaves Pretoria at 7:15 tomorrow and arrives in Nelspruit at 12:55 in the afternoon.”

“I’ll have to check that the bus leaves when you say it leaves,” she said.

Finally, a break.

The supervisor typed something into a computer, and saw that, indeed, the bus would leave at 7:15 and arrive at 12:55.

She looked at me. The supervisor looked at me. I looked at the soggy underwear cash on the counter.

She held my credit card up to her face with one hand and handed me a blank slip of paper with the other. “Sign here,” she said.

I did so, my looping, sweeping signature exactly matching what I knew was on the back of my card.

She considered the two, and spouted a long string of Afrikaans to the lady behind the counter, the only word of which I caught was one that sounded like “Forge.”

“Yeah,” I said, smiling. “You can’t forge that signature.”

The lady smiled. “No, you certainly can’t.  Here are your tickets.”

She printed them out, wished me a nice trip, and like a miracle, we were on our way. Anything was possible now.



If You Give a 7-Year-Old a Balloon…

Picture yourself in a small room, say about 20 feet by 30 feet.  This room is made of concrete and has terrible acoustics.  At each of the four tables is a pile of cut up newspaper strips.  Now, add 24 seven-year-olds.  Give each seven-year-old a paintbrush, a bowl of watery glue, and an inflated balloon.  Go.

This is how I spent my week.  It feels like I was in most people’s personal version of Armageddon for four days.  It ended up being only about two hours, but boy did those hours crawl by.  The decibel level pushed 100.  The stay-in-your-seat level was in a constant state of flux, hovering between nearly half and nearly 33% throughout.  The glue-on-table-or-floor to glue-on-balloon ratio was nearly 3 to 1, and if not for a herculean effort on my part to wrest control of certain children’s paintbrushes and apply the watery glue for them, would have climbed all the way to 4.5 to 1.  And of course, the balloon-used-as-art-project to balloon-used-as-weapon-to-batter-my-friend-across-the-face ratio was approximately 1 to 12.

Multiple times during the class, a beleaguered second-grader would toddle up to me, hold up a slobbery, wet balloon, and say, “Puedes inflar mi globo?” (Can you inflate my balloon?), a statement which high school kids would be certain to make into a double entendre.  I’d take one look at the puppy-dog eyes, start to bend down, and then notice once again the mouthpiece of the balloon, which looked like the kid had fed it to an alpaca.  Thinking quickly, I’d grab some other kid’s paint brush and say, “Estoy ocupado ahora, pregunta a él” (I’m busy right now, ask that kid) and point to a student happily flinging glue all over anywhere but his balloon.

The idea is that eventually, when the glue and newspaper strips harden around the balloon, we’ll pop the balloon and have a mask.  You can just imagine how that will go.  At that point, we’ll replace the watery glue with watery paint, and the process will roll on.

Now ask yourself: have you ever seen a friend who’s a teacher, or your student’s teacher, out on the town after knocking back a few?  Have you thought to yourself, “I don’t know about that person teaching my child.”  If so, please refer to the above story, and have a heart.