A Rough Dip in Downtown Joburg

By Mike K-H

This happened nearly two years ago. You still have to be careful, but I feel that things have improved. Certainly the car park security guys in the big malls don't carry pump-action shotguns any more.

Johannesburg is still on a roll, but the money keeps moving north. Nouveau-riche Sandton is bursting at the seams, Bryanston is full, Fourways is breeding neo-Georgian office blocks like mucor on damp bread, and there is a second mall the other side of the crossing. Montecasino (only one ‘s’) with its mock Italian streets is a smaller but more tasteful example of the “let’s forget the world outside and pretend we’re somewhere else” theme seen at Caesar’s, next to Jan Smuts airport. Inside, even the starlit sky is artificial. At Montecasino security guards are everywhere, but they’re dressed in wine-coloured Italian police uniforms and also act as guides, like old-fashioned London coppers.

Meanwhile, the old city centre is suffering.

Three weeks before Independence, with four hours to wait for my train at the main railway station, I walked warily, keeping to the wide streets. The steel lattice door leading to my mid-day snack was unlocked by a burly white security guard wearing a gun, and closed firmly behind me. Inside, the white clientele seemed relaxed as they downed beers and gnawed pizzas. Outside the womb was the real world, black with occasional white specks Here black traders, street cleaners, office workers and nondescripts mingled cheerfully, mostly wrapped up in their own affairs. Through a dimly-lit doorway, a silent Indian shopkeeper stood behind his till.

Now there is a new railway station. High canopy, airy space edged with intermittent commerce. Snacks, magazines, knick-knacks, a sleepy information kiosk. A mezzanine with offices and somnolent boutiques. Overhead signs point to things which are not there. A secret archway leads to platforms, but no more trains than there were in the old station, from which I once started a journey that followed the magnificent wilderness route to Capetown.

I project an image to fill this empty space. August. Gare de Lyon. Hordes of kids with rucksacs, clambering on to trains headed for ‘colonies de vacances’ across France. The noise is only in my head, but it is more comforting than the forlorn echoes of this underused place.

My map suggests there may be a railway museum. The woman at the information kiosk directs me to the station management offices. Most of them are empty. Someone says there used to be a small museum a long time ago, and has heard vaguely of a plan to build a new one. He doesn’t think any action has been taken yet, though.

Disappointed, I decide to explore the other side of the tracks. A few stalls are set up directly on the sandy earth, where the pavé has been dug up and not replaced. I am the only white. No-one hustles me or begs. They’re living in their own world. One or two people look at me without staring. I try to be aware of things around me, but avoid casting the nervous glances that would show I knew I didn’t belong there.

I move to a wider street. People smile. I find three unusual books among the thousand or so displayed along the wall of an old building. I chat to the stallholder, who turns out to have originated in Kenya.

Thoroughly relaxed, I decide to make the circuit, and return via a narrow street with a busy market. I am carrying three books. I have made a purchase. I must be carrying money. I am now a mark.

The man in the red shirt steps towards me with a ‘don’t I know you?’ look in his eye. I’m going to get hustled. No, I’m not. He hesitates, and looks over my shoulder. It was all a mistake.

Suddenly, he scowls and lunges towards me. He looks so much like a pantomime rogue that I nearly burst out laughing, until he grabs my arms and growls at me. Then someone pins my elbows back. Am I getting mugged?

No. Another hand dips into my trouser pocket, following the chain and lifting my wallet.

Now the adrenalin is flooding in and time slows down.

I arrived in Scotland too late in life to learn the nose-smashing head-butt known as a ‘Glasgow kiss’. If I try it now, I’ll probably miss and crack my own skull. I buckle my knees and drop to the ground. Everyone lets go. The wallet comes to the end of the chain, and the snatching hand loses it. The pop stud on the end of the chain releases. Several notes and coins and my driving licence scatter around. Someone bends to snatch the wallet, but I grab his legs and bring him down. He struggles free and grabs the wallet again. More notes fly around.

Sympathetic market shoppers ferret among the stalls, retrieving notes, coins and my licence for me. A grizzled old stallkeeper says “You should not come here. Plenty thieves. No police. Not good for white man.”

I thank everyone. I can’t afford to tip them for helping, but they don’t expect me to. I have lost one hundred US dollars, about fifty dollars’ worth of local currency, and a gold VISA card. I still have enough for a snack lunch and a taxi back to Fourways. I still have a credit card wallet in the other pocket. I still have my cellphone in my shirt pocket. I shall probably have a few light bruises.

I have been lucky. If I hadn’t struggled, I’d have lost more but probably been unharmed by these non-violent pickpockets. Every day newspapers and TV tell of the violent robberies, where victims are knifed in the thigh or have their knees smashed, to stop them giving chase.

I call my wife and ask her to cancel the lost VISA card. The nearest police station is a two mile walk through territory at least as risky as the place I have just come from. Forget making a formal report of the incident. I still have a meeting to go to.

Sign in. Get badged. Wait for an escort. No different from London, Paris or New York.

Johannesburg is like a marsupial with multiple pouches. The pale joeys hop out, run around for a while, and scramble back into the nearest pouch when danger threatens. Some don’t make it.

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