Darren Abroad – Gates within Gates

I write this from the sunny veranda of a sea house in Hermanus, a town in the Western Cape (later, I’ll upload it at an Internet cafe). My view of the azure Indian Ocean is marred only by a ten-foot steel fence topped with jagged spikes. If I wasn’t outside, I’d be protected by the fence, a solid wooden door, and a metal folding gate just inside the door. There are actually four doors and gates at the back of the house. All of the windows are protected by tasteful bars, each bar offset from the previous one. This house is typical of white-owned property in South Africa

From the 2003 Lonely Planet on South Africa, Lesotha & Soweto

South Africans are obsessed with not becoming victims of crime. This has always been a violent country and the police force has never been in a position to enforce the laws effectively. The big difference since the 1994 elections is that the white community is suffering from the crime that has long plagued other communities. The vast majority of South Africans are just as worried about crime as you are, not surprisingly this worry can cause paranoia. This situation isn’t helped by the government’s refusal to publish crime statistics.

Afrikaaners trade crime stories like we discuss the weather. Every person I’ve met has a half-dozen violent anecdotes at the ready. My family is very cautious, and constantly impress upon me the threats to our safety.

This constant flood, combined with the lack of hard numbers, has made it very difficult for me to assess the actual danger level in any particular situation. I’m constantly asking myself ‘am I at risk here?’ but it’s impossible to know the answer. Practically speaking, I’ve never felt threatened, but then I’ve taken care where and when I’ve left the house.

I could never live this way. From the suburbs to the center of the city, every house and business is its own tiny prison. Personal safety is the central concern of every outing–which route to take, how much currency to carry, who to greet and who to ignore.

Because of my uncertainty, and because of the gates and fences, I probably won’t come to this country again. I don’t mind feeling unsafe, but I don’t like feeling locked in. I might go on safari, which, ironically, is much safer than sitting on this veranda, but I won’t visit South Africa’s cities or towns.

South Africans are deeply concerned about the state of the country after Nelson Mandela’s death. He’s a healthy-if-frail 85, but he’s lived a hard life, and nobody has any misconceptions about the number of years he’s got left. Without his calming influence (one black South African told me that ‘Mandela is like Jesus in this country), things could get messy very quickly.

The stationery beside the phone at our Cape Town hotel asked ‘Have you phoned your loved one?’ There are two messages in that question: One, obviously, ‘use our phone and pay exorbitant rates’. Two, ‘call home to reassure your family that you haven’t been butchered while visiting our dangerous nation.’

I’ve just spotted a whale. It’s a southern right, an early visitor to its warmer breeding grounds just offshore. It’s a pity that I can’t see it better, but this fence is in the way.