An Improbable Guide to Survival cont.

Landing at Tambo airport was surreal in the sense that it was completely ordinary and yet my mindset instantly shifted on arrival ­– as if I was an Alien about to explore new terrain. All the anxiety I had been feeling had been building up to this moment. Strikingly opposed to the lack of physical preparation I’d conducted, I’d been mentally preparing myself for weeks. I could feel myself on edge. Observing more closely, more consciously, every movement that disturbed the air. I hate the feeling that I’m overreacting in any given situation – I might not always succeed but I like to at least try to keep a level head on my shoulders – but my instincts insisted, from all the information I had about staying safe in this country, that my awareness heightening ten to the dozen was necessary.

Frankly, during the first week or so of my stay in South Africa, that paranoia and hypertension regarding safety, only switched off intermittently on rare occasions.

Having breezed through security, I found myself a trolley and said one last prayer that my luggage would be circling around the conveyor belt. It was. All forty-something kilos of it. Even if I hadn’t sprouted eyes in the back of my head and developed the reflexes of a skittish street cat, I doubt anyone would have been able to rob me of my concrete cases, or at least they wouldn’t get very far. Besides, I could feel my muscles bulking from the sheer effort of pushing my stacked trolley around arrivals; clearly this chicka could fight off a mugger. You might laugh but these are thoughts that genuinely crossed my mind as I proceeded to get organised. Mission one: withdraw cash. Task two: buy a sim card. Task two was easier said than done, when my shitty, out-dated phone wouldn’t accept the sim. I’d have to buy a cheap phone away from the airport.

Once I’d fulfilled the promise of a quick call to my parents, to let them know I’d arrived in one piece (I bent the truth more than slightly and told them I was about to meet my friend) I put my trust in a taxi driver who offered me a good price for a ride to the hotel I hadn’t cancelled my booking for.

Sipho, which roughly translates to ‘gift’ from Zulu, was the first South African I had the pleasure to converse with on day one. As we drove into Johannesburg (the CBD resurrecting the approach to Manhattan in my memory) we discussed the buildings, the history and what must-sees I should try to tick-off whilst here. When we eventually halted at the gates to my fortress for the night, security struck me again. No one was getting into this property if they weren’t a hotel guest or staff. Three guards closed in on the car before allowing us to enter.

I exchanged numbers with Sipho, waved goodbye and breathed the tension out of my body as I stepped into the reception of Faircity Quatermain. The hotel had a warming villa-esque vibe. Friendly reception members welcomed me in and showed me to the breakfast area. Immediately at ease, I then retreated to my room to freshen up and take a moment before devising day two.

Financially, I knew I had to survive just three days until pay day; the only budgeting limitation was that my wage for August (paid in arrears) had a huge question mark above it. My hours had been cut substantially that month and I anticipated my pay slip would look unimpressive. That in mind, I had just short of half a grand to keep life cushy, with another half grand estimated to drop on the Wednesday. I began researching Airbnbs for week one. In my favour was the fact that Jo’burg is insanely cheap to a girl coming from ‘Dam.

Meanwhile I dropped a message to a friend of a friend that lived in Jozi. You’ll get sick of me reiterating this time and time again, but I have the best friends anyone could ask for. My friend Mike – a bartender at a bar I frequented in Amsterdam – gave me the number of his best friend just before my final week of panic, because I’d drunkenly confessed that I was bricking it and had zero game plans. Kalman was super chilled to hear about my situation and invited me to a braai at his yard for the following evening. What’s a braai, you ask? Or at least that’s what I asked. Turns out it’s basically a barbecue – but you wouldn’t dare say that to a South African! They’ll insist that a braai is different, because a braai is with fire and a barbecue is apparently electric. Growing up with an Aussie dad I attest this is bollocks. We’ve always grilled our meat, over a flame, on the barbe. Anyway I digress; more about the braai later.

Guided by Kalman’s opinion on which Airbnbs sounded best, I found one that fit the bill and booked without delay. Another weight lifted and I had the rest of the arvo to relax.

I promised myself that if I was going to live day by day, without an agenda, I would savour every second that things were ok. At this point in time things were beyond ok. I wandered around the tranquil grounds of a stunning hotel, read my book by the pool and soaked in the beauty of the gardens.

Later in the evening I ordered room service (which set the bar pretty high for food expectations in SA) and watched some local TV. I was feeling quite zen until safety spoilt my fun again. Unknowingly, the sweet lady from room service, who I’d gotten chatting to, had reignited my paranoia. She’d asked with quiet concern in her voice, “Are you staying here on your own? This is such a big room for just one person.” I quickly responded with reassurance that I like spending time on my own and I like a bit of space. A bewildered look captured her expression, “I wouldn’t feel safe on my own. I always feel safer with somebody, even if I’m just with my baby girl. As long as you’re sure though… enjoy your night Miss.”

Would I have encountered a similar reaction if I’d been alone in a hotel room back home? Was she just an incredibly caring person speaking from a maternal place when she saw a young girl on her own? Was she deceptively evil and trying to suss out if I was vulnerable, then going to tip off a criminal with the information so they could break into the little-rich-white girl’s room in the middle of the night and rob her?! I chewed over such nonsense as I chewed on a veggie-dog. No, I was being silly again. I felt perfectly safe before her mind games. Putting my empty plate and all dreadful thoughts aside, I changed the channel from local news to a SA version of Romeo and Juliet, then did what every English person does to comfort oneself: put the kettle on and got back into bed.

★★★

Stashing the last of the complimentary teas and coffees into the pouch of my holdall, I hit the road in an Uber, keen to get to the Airbnb. Welcomed at the gate by my host Melanie, I was soon thereafter confident I’d picked a good’n.

The cottage was tucked away behind Melanie and Paul’s house; hidden on the other side of a heavy, cypress door was an enchanted little garden that gave the cabana a fairytale charm. The moment you stepped inside it really felt like nothing else existed beyond the tall walls that guarded this little gem.

Melanie and I chatted over a cup of tea and I quickly made myself at home. Once she’d walked me through the security alarms and loaded me with top tips on how to stay safe, I unpacked my case and spent the rest of the day researching the area.

Later that evening it was time to call another Uber and make my way to my very first braai. Kalman was just as chilled in person when he greeted me at the gate (I dropped Mike a message for having such cool friends). Immediately welcomed by the few others that were already outside, I took a seat in the cosy outdoor lounge. There wasn’t a spare second to feel awkward as everyone had plenty of questions for the curious stranger that had just joined their group. Reaching over I grabbed the bottle of beer Kalman had fetched for me; I took two hard gulps and prepared to explain my empty plans. It’s always a bit weird joining an established friendship group as a newbie. Oddly, it was a comfort that the entire situation was foreign to me – feeling estranged took away the social pressure. I was in a new country, with new people at the house of someone I didn’t really know and yet I felt completely comfortable. Everyone left a very genuine impression – they were asking questions because they were actually interested – and I think that was the key to how relaxed the evening was. Another beer, a couple of hits of some nice South African weed and a few tequila shots later, everything was lekker.

I was starting to feel a little more warmed up to what I should expect from Jo’burg when two of Kalman’s mates made a dramatic entrance to the braai. Zama (Kalman’s brother) and this girl Kate had been giving me pointers that I’d handily been jotting down in my little emergency notebook. A few of the notes were on things to do and where to catch a great sunset, but the majority of the notes were to do with, shock, safety. With concern growing in my eyes, Zama assured me I’d be fine and it’s not that bad, especially in this neighbourhood.

“Bro we’ve just been robbed!” bursting into the garden with comical timing, James and his mate’s arrival switched up the energy of the group. Beautiful irony would have it that whilst we discussed crime rates, they were being held up in a carjacking on the uber ride over. They’d had their phones taken and if I remember rightly, James’ exact reenactment included something like, “White boy give me your fucking gold chain!”. What’s even more beautiful about the story, is that they had to call another uber from a garage. Mugged in an uber… calls another uber. Beautiful. Luckily another tequila shot helped me laugh off the whole thing before calling my uber home that night.

Following the braai, I spent the next few days as a bit of a recluse. There’s so much to do in the City of Gold, but I hesitated when it came to holiday fun because I was still hoisting myself back up onto the balancing beam between chaos and order. Nothing was stable.

I’d love to tell you that my days were spent productively planning and actioning, but the multitude of thoughts whirling through my brain kept getting tangled; straightening out my thoughts was a major road block. Much of my time was spent quite literally pacing and wandering aimlessly from room to room, losing my mind, casually disrupting my insanity with tea breaks. All I’d really accomplished by Wednesday was a stingy food shop and the purchase of a cheap Nokia for my SA sim card. Also I’d extended my stay at the Airbnb another week after an update from René. A change in plans had me heading to her home town of Lydenburg at a later date.

Thursday swung around and the worst happened – my MacBook, aka my lifeline, broke. At least when I was being unproductive at the start of the week I could procrastinate by googling answers to the thousands of random questions I had for myself. Detangling my messy head would surely be harder without my laptop.

Depleted, having tried every genius move I knew, I admitted defeat and made a call to a professional late Friday arvo. Highly reluctant to part with a big chunk of my survival fund but desperate to get it fixed, I agreed to take it in the following Monday. With nothing to be done until then, fuck it, I was taking myself out for dinner. I’d wasted nearly a week, I wasn’t about to waste the weekend driving myself deeper into madness. One quick google search on my phone: ‘rum near me’ and I was calling an Uber to drop me at Brian Lara Rum Eatery.

Vintage fairy lights warmed the patios out front where young couples and groups of friends were chatting over tikis and beers. Inside the Caribbean themed joint the atmosphere buzzed with just as much energy. It was exactly what I needed. Three sips into a generous dark ‘n’ stormy I smiled to myself, sat back and went into people watching mode.

As the waiter passed me back my spicy lentil curry in a takeaway box, I clocked a guy at the bar for a fourth or fifth time. Throughout the evening I’d been trying to gage with my shortsighted vision whether or not he was hot. This time he definitely clocked me back. He stood up and started walking alongside the bar in my direction. Thinking to myself, he’s probably just going to the toilet and getting a closer look on his way, he suddenly lunged forward and took a seat next to me. An interaction so short I don’t even remember the wording of it, but within 30 seconds, I’d asked for the bill and agreed to leave with this guy to another bar. Disclosure ­– the dark ‘n’ stormy was lethal and I was a little tipsy. Nevertheless, when an adventure card is played I go with my gut; my instincts read this guy to be a good one and I was excited about the turn of events.

Walking out the door we both stopped, somewhat in sync, when we realised we should probably exchange names at this point. That’s how I met Keagan…