We rode past the sloping mountains, sugar cane fields, plains and trees early in the morning towards our destination: Durban. We have left the safari, and the rivers full of crocodiles and hippos to experience the populated urban city. I looked out the window and saw the sun setting through the magnificent clouds, above hills where far away houses sat sporadically. Soon we were at the hotel and men dressed in all black with red military hats came to help us with our luggage.
The following day we rode through the city to a beautiful mosque. The streets were filled with people. There were tables set up everywhere on which lay everything from fruit, scarves, batteries to house phones to be sold. Next to them sat older women or men waiting for early morning customers to come by. When we stepped out of the van and walked through a passage to the mosque there was a man sleeping on the bench, and another hanging outside the gate, who went to get our guide for us. After the tour we walked across the street to the Indian craft market.
This was a large place where dozens of rooms turned into stores in which owners consistently pestered walker bys to buy the hundreds of African statues, figures, maps, tools, art and other souvenirs on display on their shelves. “There is a lot of tension between the races, and it’s really bad in Durban,” one of the Indian ladies selling things in the Indian Market told Emily. She also talked about how bad Khayelitsha was (a township in Cape Town). “How do you find racial tension in Cape Town? Do you talk to black people a lot?”
”Yea, pretty often, because we work in the school and a lot of our group works in the townships.” Emily said to a surprised face.
“But Cape Town is a lot better,” she explained, talking about the engrained tension between Indians and Blacks in Durban.
After these planned activities, and bags full of goods to take home to friends, we were taken back to the hotel and left to our own devices in this interesting city.
*
“There are some areas that are no-go places.”
“Behind the hotel, that is definitely somewhere you can’t go.”
“Are we going to be able to go into town, to see the city?”
“No. No. In front of the hotel is fine though. You can go to the beach there, the water is really nice.”
*
“We are wondering how we can get into town, where the shops are,” Emily and I asked the man behind the customer service counter at the hotel.
Hesitation. “Have you been to the [describes the casino center we have already been].”
”Yea, we’ve already been there. We went there last night. There is a mall right back there right?” (pointing to the back of the hotel). We had seen it driving back from the mosque.
“Yes, but the stores are small and there is nothing really there. It is not good to go there.”
”Why?”
“It is fine in the day. But when it gets around this time,” it was only 3pm, “vagrants hang around there and it is not good.” He thought for a moment, seeming flustered. He obviously did not want two white girls walking freely too far to be a liability for the hotel. “There is a bus!” He exclaimed triumphantly. “The bus, it leaves right down the street. You can go and come back in an hour.” (Because obviously it is unimaginable for us to stay any longer) “If you get the ticket you can come back for free within the hour, so you can just go for an hour and come right back.”
”Can’t we take one of those taxis?” I asked this almost as a test, knowing that the thought of us riding in the cramped minibus taxis historically used by poor blacks would arise another nervous reaction from the older Indian man, whose white beard hung low to his chest.
“Oh, no no. They are not good. They drop you off very, very far. You would have to walk. It’s too far.” I laughed inside knowing that he just didn’t want us to ride them. If he only knew we took those taxis every where we went in Cape Town, sitting arm on arm with the very people he was trying to “protect” us from. I also knew that the taxis stop everywhere, especially the busiest shopping streets, making it hard for me to believe what he said. “You are foreigners, and it is very easy to spot. People can immediately tell who are from here and who is not.” Of course, I thought, in a city where only 5% of people are white, how can someone not see who blatantly does not “belong” in which area, even after 15 years of rainbow nation propaganda.
After further questioning him about the bus stop he left his desk and walked us all the way down the street and pointed us to the stop. “See there. There are security guys standing there, you see? That is where the bus stops.”
”Thank you,” we said to him as he walked back.
I thought this was a free South Africa, a South Africa flaunting its rights, its liberty, and the free wills of the people. On the exterior it is easy to say that, to celebrate the great feat that South Africa has surpassed in becoming a democratic, free nation for all people, white and black. But on the ground people are not free. Movement is restricted. People must stay in the bubbles that were created during apartheid, their movements constrained by fear. Fear of gangs in the “Coloured areas”. Fear of the whites and the cops in the suburbs. Fear of the blacks and crime everywhere else.
At this point his paranoia was getting to me. “Maybe we should just stay by the beach side where they are selling all those things on the road.” I was referring to the assembled tents which marketed cloths, African artifacts, jewelry, etc alongside the beach. This sidewalk is empty once the sun sets, after the women, dressed in their long skirts or dresses, pack up their belongings and head home.
“Now you’re changing your mind? You’re the one that wanted to see the city.” Emily said to me. We stood there in limbo for several minutes with fear and restraint pulling us one way and freedom and curiosity pulling us in another.
“Let’s just go.” I said finally.
We walked to the bus stop where the four security men sat around speaking to each other in Zulu. We looked at the map of the bus route and planned out our trip. It wasn’t complicated at all. “Excuse me,” I tapped on the security man’s shoulder after what seemed like 20 minutes. “Does one of the taxis over there go into town?” I pointed to the busy corner of taxis which came and went every 5 seconds. He had seen me standing there impatient earlier, “No, no they don’t go there. Don’t worry; the bus will be here very soon. Five minutes.” I knew he was lying. I knew the taxis went there.
Eventually we saw the bus pull around and we stepped inside knowing there was no turning back now. The bus was empty and most of the passengers we picked up were white. It seemed this mode of transportation was pre prescribed to us for this very reason. We watched as the buildings became more condensed and the people more crowded. Almost everyone we saw was black, except those few that looked from Indian descent. We watched the numbers on each bus stop count up as we passed and got off on the fifth one, close to the mosque we had visited earlier. Out on the street I breathed the happy air of independence and liberation. People walked up and down the walkway. The street vendors crowded the sidewalks and mini bus taxis swarmed the road. We walked into shop after shop, bargaining down already cheap shoes. Most of the store owners were Indian, and in every store we went to we were followed by a shop worker who walked behind us so close it became slightly irritating. In some places you had to leave any bags in the front and your purse was checked upon exiting. The stores sold mostly the same things: skirts, cheap sandals, dress shirts, etc and they each played a catchy song, mostly from America.
After stopping in almost every store we walked by, we were satisfied and ready to go back with our newly bought shoes in hand. We started walking down the street and before crossing the road a boy my age looked me in the eye. I wondered what his motives were. “Hello.” He said as we crossed. Maybe he expected me to ignore him so instead I started a conversation with him. His friend walked next to Emily. He told me how he attends an IT school, where they were walking from to their flat, which was nearby. When telling me his name he first said, “Xolisa” and then quickly added, but you can call me, “Steve,” assuming I couldn’t pronounce or remember his real name.
“Oh, Xolisa,” I said, saying the click correctly, “That’s a nice name. My name is Faina.” He seemed content. After more conversation we realized that the bus stop was no where in sight.
“Where is the bus stop?” I asked him, slowing my pace. We did not know which way we walked or where the bus was supposed to be. We were in the middle of no where, with two strangers, who happened to be black. That Indian man at the customer service counter would have had a heart attack. Xolisa stopped and looked back up the street trying to think. “It is that way. You walked the wrong way…Do you want me to walk you there?” It would be a rather far walk back, the opposite direction of his place and I didn’t want to inconvenience him. “If you want to,” I said.
He took that as a yes and we walked back up the street. Xolisa’s friend talked to Emily and I heard him ask her if she was scared. “Why would I be scared?”
“I don’t know,” he said and shrugged it off.
At the corner Xolisa pointed to a taxi. “That one will take you there.” He went to the taxi driver and told him where we were going and made sure that he would stop there. He took care of us not as if we had just met him on the street but as if we were his sisters. We thanked them and waved good bye. I felt the familiar atmosphere of a tight taxi full of working class passengers and smiled as we climbed to the back. The taxi dropped us precisely where we needed to be and we walked back to the hotel past the “dangerous vagrants” who went about their late afternoon like any one else would.
