The South African Chronicles, Vol. 2: The Night We Almost Got Mugged

I've long considered my 17 days in South Africa that opened 2002 as perhaps the most important time of my life. It was during my time there that I grew from being a child, found a closer connection to God, and learned of the beauties that can be found when you step beyond the barricades of home. Detailing the entire trip would take an extensive dedication that I don't have at this time, so I've decided to periodically archive a few distinct moments from my time there. Though this is my first entry since that inspiration, I actually detailed one of my nights in South Africa in a previous entry. Thus, we start with Volume 2. There may never be a Volume 3, but it sounds like a decent idea for down the road.

The day after September 11th (I have an adversity to the phrase "9/11"), I checked my dorm mailbox and found a thick, important-looking envelope donning a gold seal and coat-of-arms. The phrase within the emblem read, "International Mission on Law," and my heart fell into the pit of my stomach. Staring at that official stationary, I honestly wondered what they were gonna do with me. I couldn't believe that within 24 hours of those infamous attacks, my country was sending me into some mystery desert land to go find a pike for Bin Laden's head. I looked up for the helicopter that was about to abduct me, shave my head, and teach me how to throw a grenade as we flew over the Atlantic. My family would never see me again, either that or my mug would be on the cover of Newsweek under the caption "Savior" within a month.

Of course, International Mission on Law had nothing to do with September 11th or the armed forces. Four months after receiving the letter in the mail, I was in JFK Airport on my way to South Africa. I found my terminal and my group, 37 college students from around the country, invited to travel to another continent and see how the law works there. We were all strangers, but by the time we sat down for our first African dinner (after a 97 hour flight), social groups had been structured, and friendships were beginning to emerge.

The unappointed leader of my group was a bearded, husky 20-year-old named Big Papa Smurf. He attended New College in Florida, an institution I had paired with images of eccentric hippies who wore purple dinosaur outfits when playing ultimate frisbee. I got this perception from my best friend Jerk, who said when he played against the New College ultimate team, one of them was wearing a purple dinosaur outfit. As for Big Papa Smurf, while he didn't pack any costumes, he certainly was jolly, outspoken, and marched to his own beat. A few anecdotes:

1) He screamed I'm gonna fucking kill you! to another student when he wanted to see if the guy could show a mad face. He said this in an international airport, four months after September 11th.
2) At a crosswalk he got into a sprinter's stance, darted away from the group, and proceeded to chase a bundle of 50 pigeons. He did this at rush hour in the government district.
3) He chased pigeons a second time, this time passing his camera to our guide and requesting an action shot.
4) He used the phrase, woopty fuckin doo! when he got bored.
5) After spotting a movie camera filming on the beach, he ran after the cameraman and then chased the actors. The director had to cut, at which time he returned to the group.

Big Papa Smurf made traveling the globe a continuing adventure in his life, and he always did his research on whatever country he was visiting. Since he had come to South Africa with all this knowledge, he asked our tour guide one evening if our clique could be dropped off in downtown Johannesburg rather than return to the hotel. Though hesitant to release young Americans loose in one of the most crime-ridden spots in the world, Peet cracked after only a few hours of Big Papa Smurf's pleading, reasoning, and yelling. The bus pulled over onto a curb, and 11 of us were left to explore the nightlife of downtown Joburg.

From there we cluelessly wandered the blocks (picture the we're-not-quite-in-the-shady-parts-yet portions of any downtown in central/south Florida), searching for a nice place to dine. Once we found a place to eat, we shared a two-hour feast of 6 appetizers, 11 dinners, and 2 bottles of Rose wine. We paid $66... total. And believe me, we definitely got our $6 worth.

This was one of the best parts of South Africa: Americans can live like kings there. I'm not sure what the conversion rate is now, but at the time you could get an off-the-market BMW or Mercedes for $500. Everything there was ridiculously inexpensive. To this day I'm considering investing in a home there should the financial opportunity arrive.

We found our way to a bar across the street, and after a few more bottles of wine and shots of various liquors, the girls convinced the guys to go to a club. We stumbled our way into unlit streets and could feel the seediness rise a few notches. The guys walked on all sides of the girls because 20-year-old Americans think that the Flying V is full-proof. When we finally spotted potential sites, we were faced with two choices. We picked the one without shattered windows.

After maybe a half-second in this club, I figured out that either we had wandered away from the real clubs, or South Africans suck. Walking through the entrance I inhaled more cigarette smoke than the fetus inside Britney Spears. You expect a club to be dark, but the dim lighting in this warehouse seemed more out of necessity than effect, like someone was behind on their electric bill. The dance floor had maybe 10 people on it. And the music: part B-side techno, part 2002 Top 40, part 80s hair band... I was a "Barbie Girl" away from throwing my glass of Amarula at the DJ.

We were all light drinkers at the time, so eventually the buzz faded enough to where we realized we didn't have to stay in this dump. We called a cab company to pick us up. In the meantime, the girls continued to smoke, drink, and burn the desolate dance floor. My friend Dan and I waited just inside the front door until our cabs arrived.

When our taxis reached the curb, Dan and I stepped outside to tell the drivers that our group was on its way. We made our way down the stairs, when out from the corner came one of the many beggars that raided downtown Joburg. He was frail and wiry, but what distinguished him from the other beggars we had encountered were his wife-beater top and thrift-store baby blue skirt. As routine for beggars, he began to approach Dan as he pleaded for some cash. Dan, who carried himself in an almost saint-like manner, was happy to oblige and reached for his wallet. The beggar continued toward us, approaching arms distance of Dan, when from behind we heard the screamed warnings of a man running our way.

No no no!

The man running our way was decked out in security guard gear.

Get away from them!

The security guard ran through me and Dan and shoved the beggar about 10 feet. Almost tackling him to the ground, the guard then lifted the beggar's skirt so his two handguns were in full display (by the way, you're allowed to carry concealed weapons in South Africa, so at this point he's done nothing wrong). My social psychology professor was right when he said that when confronted with someone carrying a weapon, your entire existence momentarily lives to focus on that weapon. Combined with this being my first encounter with guns since my childhood friend was killed in a gun accident the previous summer, I couldn't act. I just stared at this homeless man's underwear, two killers held in by a dirty, eroding elastic band.

I woke up when another friend yelled from behind, hey, are those our cabs? I told him to go get everyone and we'd be on our way. Meanwhile our beggar was still standing there, recovering from his mini-rumble with security. But then a funny thing happened:

The security guard just walked off.

Dan and I were still there, the beggar was back to within 15 feet, and the security guard crossed the street and went back to wherever he had been. What the hell was he doing? Did the beggar tell him he'd leave, and he was gullible enough to believe it? Was his policy only to give Americans a warning, then say ok hot dog eaters, you're own your own? Did he not expect two guns under the skirt and had to go change his uniform? Whatever the case, I now stood in a world crime capital, unprotected, facing an armed man who wanted money.

Free to do what he chose, the beggar continued toward me. By the time my group was exiting the door, he was within 2 feet of me. I looked in the direction of my group, avoiding eye contact with the beggar, and waved everyone toward the cabs. As they came down the stairs, I could feel his cold stare into my face. He reiterated that he really needed some money, that I had to help him.

I stared through his pleas and rank breath as Dan and I got our blissfully ignorant crew into the cabs. Though I remained calm and ignored this guy, my mind was pleading, please everyone, hurry and choose a fucking cab before I get shot. After our 9 friends split into the two cabs, Dan went into one, as I walked toward the other. I didn't feel the pressure of the beggar against my back, but I wondered if that was because he had given up or he was waiting to get into shooting distance. I finally looked back as I grabbed the open cab door. The beggar was walking away, his back toward us, the guns moving the opposite direction. Everyone scrunched in for me, I closed the cab door, and the cab proceeded to go 95 mph toward our hotel.

I don't know what Dan did, but I didn't tell my cab for another 20 blocks.

Better Days

Atop the growing pile in my hamper sits a white undershirt with a light coat of mucus on the bottom-right side. Even after another restless night of tossing in my usually comfortable bed, I awoke this morning feeling like today could be the day, the day I felt better than I have in a while. The tops of my eyes didn't have the same ache, I woke on my own free will rather than from a coughing fit, and my voice only had a slight hint of my low-rough-and-sexy sick voice. Then I actually stood up out of bed. The pressure in my head rushed from out of nowhere, as did the sneezing fit that ended up on my shirt.

Ever since a surreal night in New York over a week ago, my body has been infested with little illnesses that have left me sick and weak for about 10 days. Between ridiculous amounts of class assignments, I've been here alone, trying to take care of myself and failing miserably. Perhaps not taking any medicine (except for nasal spray) and not sleeping has contributed to that. Or maybe I'm a 22-year-old guy who's trying to take care of a 22-year-old guy, not an ideal combination. I've never heard of large amounts of buffalo wings helping cure a cold, but I try it anyway.

A couple of times I've been lying on my couch, coughing into my clammy hand, and for a split second wonder how she would take care of me. This freaks me out, considering we still barely know each other, but I can't help but remember that moment when we went back to our table and I'd noticed all the sweat I had compiled on my face. She saw me trying futilely to wipe the sweat away with my designer shirt. She removed the bar napkin from the base of her Corona and gently wiped my face dry. I kind of stared at her the whole time, acknowledging the mutual chemistry we've just accepted is there. It's way too soon, potentially unhealthy, to allow that scene to pop into my head and wonder what could be. Yet as I sit here with a congested body, I'm just wondering how it's gonna be, and waiting to feel good again.

The Game

As my apartment is kryptonite to cell phones, I walked downstairs and went outside to talk to Rockhard. We were planning another one of my weekend trips to New York, joking about bukkake, you know, the usual. As I was saying something trivial to Rockhard, I was interrupted from behind by the voice of a female. "Hey!" was all she said.

As she walked past me, I recognized her as a girl I met a few months back while out with my best friend from college, Jerk. Always happy to see a familiar face, particularly an attractive one, I ask her how she's been. Apparently unclear as to how to answer that question she responds with, "What are you doing tonight?" Seeing that it's a Thursday in Harrisburg, I just got out of class, and I should be required to wear a sandwich board blazoning the word "dork", I follow with, "Nothing. I have no friends."

"Well, you're meeting us (she was with a similarly attractive friend) at Champ's after you get off the phone. See you there."

Rockhard hears the whole thing and tells me to get off the phone and follow her. Choosing to only give a hint of desperation rather than reek of it, I was in my car on the way to Champ's within 20 minutes. It only took maybe 15 seconds inside this sports bar to remember why I never called this girl back.

She was very nice, laid back, cute, and had a nice ass. But she and I have absolutely nothing in common. After the standard greeting questions, I had nothing more to say to her. The conversation had no direction. It was forced, cliche, and dull. I still have no clue as to why this girl not only twice offered to give me her number without my ever asking when we first met, but invited me out again on this night. There's no way she couldn't feel the blandness and incompatibility. Maybe she's hopelessly friendly.

I could've travelled one of two routes. I could've flirted anyway and seen if she was digging me, or I could've cut my losses and said goodnight.

I was home in time to get plenty of sleep before my drive to New York.

Something that I've learned about myself and have willingly accepted is that when it comes to talking to girls, I have no game, which in essence, is my game. I'm straightforward like I'd be with my friends. This isn't to say that I open the vault to the real me when we first meet, but what you get is a portion of the real me and not some character I've created to appear attractive. If I'm interested, I'll be genuine, ask questions about you, and figure out if I like what you're about. If I get the real you, you get the real me, and we have a mutual liking, then we'll have a real connection.

I'm not gonna throw random statements at you to impress you or give you want you want to hear. If those things aren't seen for the bullshit they are upon first listen, they will be uncovered eventually. I've tried to flirt for the sole reason of getting a girl interested in me, and I physically can't pull it off. There's some mechanism inside me that hears what my mouth is saying and essentially contorts in disgust. Maybe I'm not as good an actor as I thought.

I'm proud of the fact that I'm basically incapable of spitting out fake game. Having that talent couldn't get me anything I want of true value (though sometimes a nice set of boobs seems pretty valuable). I'm forced to present myself in an honest light, which in the long term makes things less complicated. What relevant thrill would I get from knowing someone fell for my game rather than me? I don't need confirmation from fake game to boost my ego. I'm sufficiently arrogant to do that on my own.