As it turns out, the only real difference between stroking the head of our pet cat Bengals and the head of a live cheetah, is that the cheetah seems to enjoy it more.
I had the Cango Wildlife Ranch in Oudtshoorn, South Africa to thank for this knowledge, where they let you go into the animal cages and pet the animals. Granted, it wasn’t all the animals. And the line was too long to pet a full-grown cheetah, so my wife and I elected to stroke the head of a smaller “junior cheetah.” But still. You don’t get to do that in Omaha. The Omaha zoo also doesn’t sell authentic, hand-woven penis guards in the gift shop. Which came with a picture, displaying how it should be properly worn.
I bought a bunch of those of my co-workers.
•••
Before the zoo, we went on a cave tour at the Cango Caverns. The caves were neat, but the highlight of the trip was when the guide pointed to a metal star permanently affixed to the bottom of a flight of stairs and told us,
“This is where someone slipped, hit his head, and died.”
He also told us a story about a fat woman who took the “adventure tour” and got stuck in a crevice. They had to call rescue services, who cut off her clothes and buttered her up in order to try to extract her obese body. Unfortunately, she was the last person on the tour, so everyone else had to patiently wait a few hours for them to work her free before they could exit the cave.
We were pulled over twice on the way to Oudtshoorn, both times being told to pay tickets on the spot—which both times the African policeman stuffed the bills of South African Rand into his pocket as soon as it was passed to him through the window. One of the cops asked “do you have something for me?” Which I shrewdly replied to with an, “uhh no?” Which he then followed up with, “where are you from?” Which I then said “the United States,” which he responded with, “Oh Barack Obama?” And I immediately replied, “Oh yeah, I LOVE Barack Obama.”
That bribe was quite a bit cheaper than the other one.
Clearly there were different rules in this country than what I was used to. Rules like, “if it’s yellow, let it mellow,” meaning you weren’t supposed to flush your pee because the southern part of the country was in an extreme drought, and they couldn’t spare the water to flush anything other than #2s. But other rules were less clear, and those didn’t come with a helpful rhyme posted on a laminated sign in each public toilet.
•••
We learned a few tips on how to stare down a mother elephant when one stepped out in front of her calf and started stomping toward us. Our safari guide Clifton knew exactly how to de-escalate the situation, and the mama and her baby were able to safely pass in front of our safari vehicle without incident. But Clifton wasn’t always around to tell me what to do.
Cape Town’s Bo-Kaap region was a marked stop on our sightseeing bus tourist map. The region houses the largest concentration of pre-nineteenth century homes in South Africa. The story of Bo-Kaap, like much of South Africa, is directly correlated with poverty and segregation, but with a little more fun. Slaves of Malaysian descent lived in the area originally and then the identical white row houses were leased to low-income residents. But gradually, as each home was transitioned from rental property to permanent ownership, the homeowners announced their newfound financial independence by painting the drab, whitewashed units a bright pastel color of their choosing. Today, for miles and miles, the community is as vibrant as a field of easter eggs.
We thought this would be cool, but we never got to see it.
I don’t understand the phrase “stick out like a sore thumb.” I’ve never once seen someone’s thumb and thought, “wow, that must be sore, it really stands out from the rest of his fingers.” Are there a lot of people with thumb injuries I’m unaware of?
But in a poor, African neighborhood that takes pride in changing a boring, white paint job into a neon shade of self-expression, being white is… well… suffice to say you stick out if you’re white. Especially when you’re carrying 3000 Rand worth of souvenirs in plastic bags with both hands. As soon as we hopped-off our hop-on/hop-off bus, my wife and I were approached by a homeless man of Malaysian descent.
“Oh my baby, my baby is sick. Please sir help my baby, I need money for my baby.”
Me, the experienced road warrior, was onto this man’s game. I could see right through it. No sir, not today. I kept walking without a response.
“Oh please, oh please. My baby needs formula, let’s just go in this store and you can buy me the formula. Just right here. Oh please sir my baby.”
He was persistent, but I was wise.
“Where is your baby?”
Ha, that’ll get him.
“With his mom, he’s too sick. Just right here, let’s go in this store. It’s not much money. Please sir. Here let’s go inside.”
Fuck. I was certain that would work. We passed by a Marriott property with a door guard. I considered walking into the hotel and pretending I was staying there. Surely the Marriott staff was used to this kind of thing and would dispose of the hobo based on some established protocol, but I decided that would be overkill. I’d dealt with plenty of homeless beggars in my lifetime, eventually they just go away.
“Right up here, let’s go right up here. Oh my sick baby. Please help.”
The pestering lasted several blocks, and at this point we were turned around. I couldn’t focus. I didn’t see any colorful houses. All I could hear was a smelly man in torn clothing going on and on about a make-believe sick baby.
He pushed us into a store and took us to a very specific aisle.
“Oh no, it’s not here. They’re out of my baby ‘s formula.”
Wow. Shocker.
“Oh no, oh no, oh no. There’s another store, but it’s far. Just give me the money and I’ll go get it.”
I’d gone along with this charade for long enough, I needed it to end so I could see some colorful poor-people houses. Twenty South African Rand is the American equivalent of just under two dollars. I could have fed an entire orphanage of fake babies with the petty cash in my wallet, but it was the principal of the thing, ya know? Right?
“I’m not giving you any money. I don’t think you have a baby.”
He pulled in close. Close enough to where my wife couldn’t hear. But I could. Unlike the fake panic he had been speaking in up to this point, his voice was steady and measured.
“Look, I have a knife in my pocket and I could just stab you and take everything, but I don’t want to do that. Just give me 20 Rand.”
Well, that was a new one. In the moment, I still felt calm. But something changed inside me. I matched his tone.
“I give you 20 Rand and you go away?”
“Yes. That’s all I want.”
I fished my wallet out of my front pocket—you know, only an idiot would put it in the back of his jeans as bait for pickpockets— and took out a brown bill with a picture of Nelson Mandela.
“Go.”
•••
Fight changed to flight. I no longer wanted to see any colorful houses. I no longer wanted to be in Africa. I just wanted to get the fuck out of there. We went back to the bus stop, but there was no bus. I couldn’t wait, not after that. We tried finding a cab, but when we located what we were told was the taxi station, the garage was full of poor people cramming into full-sized vans. That’s when I remembered what I had read about South African taxis before the trip. There were no South African taxis. During Apartheid, white people drove cars and nonwhites were expected to walk. So, gangs established an unregulated system of public transportation, which often resulted in abductions and robberies.
I needed to get out of this part of Cape Town. Now. We walked toward the ocean. That’s generally where we were staying. Where white people stayed. The urgency was painted on our faces, and a man with an AK-47 and a safety vest took notice.
“Do you need help sir?”
“Yes. Please. We’re trying to make our way to our hotel, we’re a little freaked out. A guy just threatened to pull a knife on me.”
“Follow me sir.”
I could feel the cortisol drain from my body. This man led us the rest of the way, shooing away suspicious folks and holding up traffic when we needed to cross, all under the protection of his semi-automatic weapon and high visibility safety vest.
“OK, here we are sir.”
I thanked the man profusely. I had never been so frightened while travelling, but I had to hand it to South Africa. Like the waitress who gets your order wrong but comps your meal, they knew how to make things right.
“Excuse me sir, don’t you have something for me?”
Uh, ok.
I pulled out my wallet again from my front pocket. I had given the mugger my last 20 Rand bill. So I handed this guy a 50.
“Thank you sir. Enjoy your time in South Africa.”
