Before I start this story, I want to say three things. First, Mom & Dad, cover your ears. Second, I will attempt to tell the whole truth and nothing but the truth, but because this story took place late at night at a Reggae bar, my memory is a bit hazy. Therefore, all quotes are of course filtered through my own memory and perceptions and should not be considered the actual conversation that took place. Third, despite the second point, I was fully aware of the situation I was in, but was unable to extract myself. Ok, here we go!
This past Friday I drove through to Durban to meet Jamie and Justin, two South African RPCVs from Christy’s group, for a night on the town and a morning at the beach before they left for the States. Upon arrival at the backpackers, Justin and I headed up to the rooftop bar for a couple of beers while Jamie cleaned up. As we were enjoying the balmy weather, our conversation moved around a bit before settling on quite morbid topics, instigated by a story I was just told about a couple of murders that took place in a rural community in Umzimkhulu where I work. We talked at length about the risks of living in Africa, particularly while driving or during a night on the town. It was at that point that I mentioned that I believe all expatriates have at least one car crash story and probably multiple stories about crime/violence. I only raise this point to highlight the irony of the situation I was to face later that evening. Anyway, after bar hopping along the wharf for a couple of hours, we decided that before heading home (it was around midnight at this point) it was time to check out Cool Runnings, one of a few bars located downtown that just happens to be a Reggae bar.
After refusing to get in the first cab because of the inflated price, we finally found a cab for the right price and pulled up to a mass of humanity spilling out of what looks like a dive from the outside. We were immediately welcomed by the pungent smell of marijuana and men selling loose joints. So we pushed our way into the tiny pub, ordered a few beers and began dancing to Burning Spear. It was at that point that we made our first friends for the evening, a pair of ladies who were also feeling the vibes and decided to start dancing with us. After a bit I excused myself to take a call from Puerto Rico (Christy, Nita and my mom are there making wedding plans) and when I returned I was given a new beer by our new friends, who proceeded to scold me for not telling them where I went. By now we too had spilled outside for some fresh air where we made a few more friends. Little did I know one guy was listening in on my conversation with one of my new friends about American politics.
At a lull in the conversation I felt a tug on my sleeve and was greeted by a large colored man with a shaved head and round facial features. Of course I turned, thinking I was making a new friend, but little did I know this guy had other plans. He started off sharing how he’s interested in America and always likes to talk with Americans. After making small talk about America – ‘Not all white men can be from Dallas’ – and about the work I was doing in South Africa – ‘I’m sure that you’re not helping those people at all’ – my new friend started to become less friendly. It should also be noted that he never really let me finish a sentence, rather choosing to cut me off and start in on the next topic halfway through my responses to his questions. Anyway, since we were now on the topic of careers, he decided to discuss his current situation in life. ‘You know, I run these streets. The streets here in Durban are mine. Like for instance, this street here where you’re standing, it’s mine. The problem is, we have to deal with these damn Nigerians now. But I know how to do that (his hand then shot into his black leather jacket a couple of times like he was going for a gun). You know, like some gangsta shit. But coming from America you know how that goes. I figured that you being American and all, you were coming here with some new shit that I’ve never seen or heard of before. [Long stare] But these streets, their mine. [Long stare] I don’t think you know what I’m talking about.’ I reassured him that I was fully aware of what he was talking about, but as he continued on, in a much more sinister way, he kept repeating that I just did not understand what he was talking about (with me reassuring him at each point) and he might have put his hand in his jacket again for effect.
As I mentioned at the start, I was now fully aware of the situation that I was in, but honestly had no idea how to remove myself. How do you end a conversation with a guy who is clearly much stronger than you and is trying to intimidate you or even thinking of other, worse things? I thought of trying to call Justin over, but what good would that have done? So, I kept at it, trying to act calm and keeping a keen eye on my new friend as well as the contents of my own pockets. Finally, after a few more minutes of very uncomfortable conversation that revolved around his owning the streets and long stares, he inquired as to what I was drinking. I showed him my bottle of Hansa and he again became aggressive, asking why I was drinking that and not Black Label (another beer that has a bit more of a kick to it). He then invited me to buy him a drink, which I happily agreed to, thinking this would help diffuse the situation. Honestly, the only thing I remember thinking was that if I could just continue talking with him and steer the conversation back to more mundane topics, this whole situation could end or I could finally get myself back to the safety of my group.
Well, as we went inside, I asked Justin if he wanted another, to which he signaled yes. I tried to get his attention and have him come in with me, but apparently my signals were not clear or the late hour had really numbed our senses. Either way, I went in alone, thinking that this was a safe place with plenty of people around. He asked what I wanted and told him that we should just get three Black Labels. He then said he wanted something else and that he would get the drinks. Unfortunately I only hade a R100 bill at that point so I gave it to him. I was now thinking two things: 1) he’ll buy the drinks and we’ll continue running around in circles until I can extract myself or 2) he’ll take the money and this will all hopefully be over. He took the money. As luck would have it, I ran into one of our girlfriends from earlier in the night that was there with her German fiancé. As I struck up a conversation with him, I stopped paying attention to my gangsta friend, hoping that this would just end. After 10 minutes and no drinks, I decided it was safe enough and bought a round for my German friend, Justin and myself.
I stayed inside for a bit talking with Mike (I think) and then dropped Justin’s beer outside thinking it was finally over. Almost. As I continued my conversation with Mike (a full 20 – 30 minutes later I would guess) I happened to look up into the taxi that had been sitting in the street for awhile and what did I see, but a round, pale colored face partially hiding below the drivers window. I cannot confirm that this was my gangsta friend, but the fact that this person stared at me for a good 2 minutes led me to believe it was him. I then decided to avoid further eye contact and after another minute he finally started his taxi, picking up a few people down the street before driving off into the night. I finally got around to telling Justin to look out for a tall, strong, colored man and that if he did see him, to give me a heads up because I was ready at that point to get the f*** out of there if he showed his face again. Luckily for me, he never returned.
So, I was hustled. I was shaken down. I was intimated. While I am personally a bit embarrassed that I basically gave this guy R100 (~$10), I believe that I got out of that situation cheap. I still have no idea what he really wanted, but this was the most uncomfortable experience I’ve been in here in South Africa and in the rest of Africa for that matter. Well, at least since my late night run in with a police officer in Ghana about 4 weeks after arriving there as a PCV, who, while pointing his most likely unloaded AK-47 (I did not know that police were not given bullets at that time) at my face, told me to get off the public phone with my mom in Dallas because I was using illegal numbers to call overseas. When I could laugh at this latest situation a bit later on the drive back to the backpackers, Justin asked as we walked into the building, ’so, do you think that counts as your one?’ I sure hope so.
