Safety is complex topic here. I believe that as a person in Cape Town, I experience safety in different shades, in different places, at different times, in different ways. There are an infinite number of ways to be exposed to danger or risk in Cape Town: by walking down the street, by climbing Lion’s Head, by taking the train, or by eating a sandwich. I will share my impressions about safety as it relates to a recent experience.
On Tuesday, TAC was going to host a public meeting at a hall in Site B for the launch of the Western Cape Health Manifesto for 2014. The event was scheduled for 4pm to 6pm, after usual internship hours (which are usually about 9am-3pm). Lauren and I discussed the possibility of staying behind in Khayelitsha after hours for this event, and after developing a plan we agreed to stay. We would send our bags home with Emily Kaufmann on the bus with the other students, stay for the event, and then negotiate our way out of the township using public transportation around 6pm.
This decision took a certain amount of deliberation and discussion because of the risk associated with deviating from our usual routine of secure, safe transport. Though we had taken minibuses around Khaya before, it was always with TAC members and during the day. For Lauren and I, this would be our first time traveling around the township unaccompanied, and our first time staying in the township past 3:30pm or so.
There is no place in Cape Town that is perfectly immune from crime or violence, including my own home. Even here in Rondebosch we’ve had two occasions where alarms have been tripped, confusion has occurred, and SAPS officers have ended up inside the house, walking down the hallways with guns drawn (I slept through both occasions). I’ve heard stories of people being mugged in broad daylight downtown, while climbing Lion’s Head, and while riding minibus taxis or on train platforms. In Khayelitsha particularly, there is a high level of violent crime, including gang warfare and territorial disputes. As whites (and Americans), Lauren and I are highly conspicuous in this community that is something like 97% black (and almost totally Xhosa). In general, I feel like my race is a factor that at times contributes to and also endangers my safety. In certain environments, like shops or public places with security presence, I feel like my safety and well-being is being looked after particularly well, because no-one wants something bad to happen to a foreigner or white person in their shop or outside their hotel or in some public area downtown. At the same time, it can identify me as a target for robbery, as someone who is likely carrying around money or an expensive phone, or someone who is gullible and can be taken advantage of. In Khayelitsha, it means that I stick out. As for the rest, I can only speculate.
The minibus ride to Site C was entirely uneventful, and everyone else on the taxi was exceedingly friendly when I demonstrated I was incompetent at making change and needed help remembering what was what. I think someone even chatted us up. When we pulled into Site C, the folks on the taxi made sure we knew where we were going to get to the taxi rank. Lauren and I were relieved to find the taxi rank very easy to understand and relatively well populated, even as we kept an eye on the darkening horizon. We jumped on a minibus to Claremont there, after receiving some help from another cab driver. The dudes at the taxi ranks are generally pretty helpful, as they want you to get in a taxi (preferably theirs) and will direct you faithfully. From Site C, it was another uneventful ride to the Southern Suburbs, and from there home.
At no time did I feel like I was particularly in danger, though I’m also glad I’m a big dude and we didn’t have any bags with us. We were also wearing our HIV Positive t-shirts, which may have meant something to the people who saw us. I came away feeling like the endeavor was not particularly risky. But that’s also the thing with risk- just because it works out well once, doesn’t mean it’ll always be that way. I relayed part of this story to an acquaintance at a bar a few nights later, and he was incredulous that I would take such a chance. His father worked in Khayelitsha and was mugged and beaten bloody with the handle of a gun, he said, and that he would never return there in his life.
I could have decided to study abroad in Copenhagen or London or Florence, some country where I could probably take public transit after nightfall or walk through the city at night without getting heckled, accosted or mugged based only on the color of my skin. And I could have interned plenty of places where HIV isn’t epidemic, or public health and medical care is sufficient, or sexual assault of women and children isn’t omnipresent. And I could have lived somewhere where youths aren’t getting swept into gangsterism at age 11, killing other children in schools, and getting hooked on crystal meth by pimps and gang leaders. I decided to come here, to learn. And the truth remains that the majority of risk I experience is that which I decide to put myself in contact with. Unlike a shack dweller or someone who lives in a township, I can go to bed in my home and reasonably expect not to be the victim of a crime or violence. In that way, I am nowhere close to being vulnerable like so many people here.
Other students’ experiences on this trip have demonstrated that there is no such thing as absolute certainty or safety. Whether you’re standing outside a bar in a safe neighborhood, or walking home through leafy Rondebosch, or running out on the Common, there are no guarantees. It’s a good idea not to do stupid things, and I have come a long way in that regard. However, besides that, my plan is to travel light, look confident, memorize the right phone numbers, and reduce risk where I can. And remember to count my blessings, because they make all the difference. Cheers.
What David Does 