I drove to the Botanical Gardens for a run, parked the silver Spark, and huffed my way to a gorgeous view of the city across expansive green gardens. Returning at sunset, I was met by the inevitable self-appointed ‘parking guard’ asking for money for keeping my car safe in my absence. He was friendly and loquacious, dressed in clothes too flimsy for the darkening fall evening. Had I heard about the recent car theft from this very parking lot, just a couple of months ago? No? The tsotsis stole a car, grabbed him and shoved him into the boot. Guns drawn, they warned him not to say anything or they’d kill him. They drove the car, with him in the boot, to a distant area where they dumped him in the bush. It was all over the news. They stole his smart phone, which was his whole life. “It’s very bad,” he concluded. Definitely an understatement.
As an explanation for why I should pay him for having kept my car safe, though, this story—whether true or fabricated, and either could be the case—has a few problems. Not the least of which is… why on earth should I have confidence in his ability to keep my car safe, and pay him for this alleged service? By his own account, he was captured by armed criminals, and a car was stolen under his watch. Granted, he wore a yellow vest, but he no longer even owned a mobile phone. At that moment, however, this paradox didn’t cross my mind – or his, apparently. I handed R5 across our realities and thanked him sincerely for his efforts (both pragmatic and rhetorical).
I spent the next afternoon at Isaiesh’s house in Soweto, sitting around the dining room table (the TV on as always, this
time cooking shows) with Isaiesh, her sisters, nieces, and a neighbor. We shared stories and photos back and forth. The women were interested in pictures of our house in the country. “So is it just jungle all around there?” “Aren’t you scared people will come and rob you?” In this world where neighbors live practically on top of each other and where crime is at the top of their worry-list, the idea that it could take five minutes to walk to a neighbor’s house is hard to fathom.
These same women who ask if I’m not afraid at home in the wilderness also ask me if I’m not afraid in Soweto, in Johannesburg. Here, there is no ‘right’ answer. The truth is, yes and no. It’s complicated, of course, by the fact that I can move somewhat comfortably between the Oregon wilderness and the noisy landscape of urban Johannesburg, reflecting enormous privilege as a white person. I say “somewhat comfortably” to acknowledge my discomfort about that privilege, and the fear that accompanies it depending on the context I’m in – not pretend I don’t feel these things. That’s the only way I know to recognize and reckon with a sense of entitlement that might be easy to deny.