Africa 2001, The Last Week (or so): Bungee jumping, Robben Island, and a morning mugging

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I started my first day without Tim by taking his spot on a tour of the Cape, feeling mildly guilty that I benefitted from his departure, and severely exhausted from the night before. We visited a seal colony, a penguin colony, a winery, the gorgeous Kirstenbosch gardens, and the tip of the Cape of Good Hope (it's not the southernmost point in Africa no matter what you were taught in high school).

All day, our guide Peter filled us with tidbits of history, geology, biology, politics, and economics. To sensitive American ears his commentary was somewhere between pleasantly unguarded and totally offensive.
He called blacks buggers and told us “everyone” has high fences around their homes. Clearly, he meant everyone who could afford them, which is a long way from everyone. He sounded somewhat sympathetic when he said the crime rate was high because so many people had so little, but then said it was sad that blacks were so disorganized and short-sighted in their approach to life. I winced but thought, “Tell it like you feel it, Peter. I didn’t travel halfway around the globe to meet people who think like me.”

The next morning the ferries to Robben Island were running for the first time after a weak of high seas. The fact that the water could keep these huge ships from running made it clear why it was an ideal spot for a prison, I suppose. 

Long before apartheid, Robben Island was home to the exiled and unwanted, lepers and other outcasts. The modern story began with the imprisonment of Robert Sobukwe. He had been arrested for generally annoying white people back in the early 20^th century. He admitted his crime and served his time. Problem was, the whites weren’t ready to let him go. He was done, released, out of jail, with one catch. They made him live the rest of his life alone in a guarded house on Robben Island. The government called him "free."

With the arrival of Nelson Mandela and the armed fighters of apartheid, the brutality really hit its stride. Political prisoners had to dig in the lime quarry, slowly going blind as they worked the white stone under the African sun without sunglasses (it was pure torture; the lime they dug was never used for anything). Cold rooms, inadequate meals, damp walls, and lousy beds tested each man’s spirit. Guards enlisted general criminals – murderers, rapists, and robbers – to taunt the political prisoners. Sometimes the guards would even bury a man up to his neck and after a few hours in the hot sun, offer him a drink. When he said yes, they'd piss on his face. 

But the whites overlooked one thing. They filled that place with some of the strongest human beings ever to take up a cause. To quote Mandela in his book Long Walk to Freedom*: “Prison and the authorities conspire to rob each man of his dignity. In and of itself, that assured me that I would survive, for any man or institution that tries to rob me of my dignity will lose because I will not part with it at any price or under any pressure.”

Mandela and his well-educated colleagues knew knowledge was power so they shared it any who requested it. The island became a university for freedom. The informed taught the ignorant in the lime quarry, in the bunk rooms, and in the mess hall. They taught the general prisoners and the guards, too.

Our guide, Lionel Davis, who himself was a prisoner for nearly a decade, marvelled at the power of his fellow inmates. Before they went to prison they lived among their own kind, sheltered from serious debate about their deepest beliefs, and separated from unity by distance, language, and ideology. In the gray halls of one of the world’s most notorious prisons, they lived with their rivals, learned to respectfully disagree, and learned to value open dialogue and free thought. Until late in the night and all through the days communists debated with republican, Zulu mingled with Xhosa, Indians broke bread with blacks. Each of them came out better people. South Africa’s democracy took root in the very prison meant to destroy it.

I don’t claim to know enough about South African politics to judge the intelligence of current policies. I only stand in awe of the men and women who fought for their beliefs, lived in prison for decades, battled the worst that hatred and ignorance can inspire, and emerged intent on cooperation and forgiveness in the name of a greater good.

Pumped up on the power of history, I went to find my girls. Nicky, Anna, and Marti were just a few hours drive away in a place called Knysna. 

After 4 hours rocking out in the car alone, I stepped through the door of the backpackers and into their happy arms. The outside observer would have thought we’d known each for years and been apart for ages. We laughed and hugged and interrupted each other’s joyous travel stories. A New Zealander named Brent, a Brit named Monet, a Welshman named Mark, and a woman named Zoe joined in the fun. Dinner came and went. The owners gave out shots of some green drink and invented billiard games that we all could play. We danced some goofy dances. In just a minute it was long past midnight.

Sleep came fast enough, and the morning too soon. We headed to Plettenberg Bay.

In Plett, as you call it when you’re in the know, we boarded a small boat for a water safari in search of the Southern Right Whale. 40-60 tons of stately calm that floats when dead, it was the "right" whale to hunt and nearly went extinct as a result. 

Since the animals are protected, the guide could only bring us so close, but if the whales approached us, so be it. Two or three surfaced nearby, blasting mist into the air and rolling their fins above the surface. 

We drifted.

The whales came closer and closer. You could almost touch them. Poor enthusiastic Nicky the vet who had wanted to see whales for weeks, nearly filled a blow hole with vomit. Marti jumped to her side and hurled, too. The guide laughed. Other guests chuckled; some sneered. The sun shone bright. 

We watched for hours. No two ways about it, Southern Right Whales are really, really big.

Back on shore I had an itch to scratch and a car to get me where I needed to be. 

The idea had been with me since Johannesburg, when an Englishman named Paul asked me a simple question: “J.J. do you agree that bungee jumping is an inherently stupid activity?”

“Yes.”

“And do you agree that if you are going to do something inherently stupid you might as well do the stupidest version of it?”

“Yes,” I guessed.

“Then make me a promise: If during the course of your trip you are near the Bloukrans River Bridge you will at least consider it.”

"I promise."

“It” was the world’s highest bungee jump and now it was just an hour away. 

So there I was, 215 meters above the bottom of a gorge, standing on the supporting arch of a bridge, waiting to toss myself into space with faith that a really long rope would save my life. Nicky hugged me and said, “Don’t die.” Anna added an “Oooh J.J.” Marti couldn’t say much since she was terrified on my behalf.

A German girl went first. "5,4,3,2,1 Bungee!" the bungee staff yelled and she didn’t even twitch. Once more, and off she dropped without a sound. The next guy stepped off without fanfare. Another girl crumpled out of sight like a collapsing marionette. I told myself I’d do better, do something that would look good on video.

My nerves were quiet as they lashed the cord around my feet and snapped the auxiliary line to a chest harness. I paused for a photo, shuffled to the edge. Keep your eyes on the ridge in the distance they tell you, to stay in the right position. But they lie. It’s so you won’t notice the ground is over 600 feet away.

I held my arms out as they counted. Eyes on the ridge. Don’t think don’t think don’t think. Of course it’s safe. The girls are watching. That guy’s filming. You won't get hurt. No one else did. And BUNGEE! I heaved myself off in something approximating a swan dive. Yeeeeee I yelled. The gorge swallowed the HAAAA. That’s enough looking at the ridge, look down. Holy shit! I’m going fast. Ahhhhhh. Mommmmmy! Slower slower. Spring back up, nearly to the bridge. Whooaaaooh. Down again And up. Boinggg, boinggg inside the canyon. No one else in sight. Swinging by my feet hundreds of feet from solid ground above or below. Stopped, I swayed and twirled. That’s what it’s like to be air. To be nowhere. To do the world’s highest bungee jump. Cool.

Paul, wherever you live and whoever you are, I kept my promise.

The next few days drifted by like summer sunsets. Laughing at nothing, singing our lungs out, the car was our castle. The girls and I hit a mellow hostel called Wild Side and went to a fancy dinner with cloth napkins and wine. We drove through the high country and ostrich farms of Oudtshoorn. The Cheetah Park was a zoo, renamed to sound cool. You could pay to pet the cheetahs; I didn't. We toured a massive cave.

I woke early the next day and rounded up my farewells, this time for good. Less than 2 hours later I was back in Cape Town. 

The next morning, Sunday, was sunny and clear. As I walked along a six lane street on my way to the craft market, one of the ubiquitous street kids asked me for spare change. "No," I said. Another did the same. No again. Then, strangely, a pair of slightly older boys brushed by me. One rubbed his thumb along the fist I had wrapped around the coins in my pocket. Here we go, I thought.

They followed me. I crossed the road. They still followed. Damn, damn damn. The two little ones, 12 years old or so, blocked my path. The older ones stood lookout on the street corners ahead and behind. Spare change? No. Spare change. I told you, no! And then came the knife. Or at least it looked like a knife as he pulled it halfway out of his jacket pocket. Spare change, they insisted. 

Anger shoved aside my pity. I punched the kid with the knife as hard as I could. He stumbled. The others ran away. I hit him again. And again. I hit him for Anna, Nicky, and Marti who had filled my trip with energy and laughter. He fell to the ground. I kicked him for Tim, who wasn't there with me because his priorities were straight. I beat him for Gildo's kindness and his vision of a better Africa. I stamped and smacked and raged for Hidde and Gareth and Alex and the fifty dollars they didn’t steal. For the nurses in the health clinics, the hostel hosts, the violin in Cintsa, Neo, the bright-colored birds and majestic animals, the Robben Island guides, and the hundreds of people who had shown me that Africa is bigger than the stereotypes. I destroyed this kid to defend my bliss and the dream he wouldn’t let live.

Actually, I threw my change on the ground and sprinted away like the terrified tourist I was. If they had a knife, why not a gun? If they wanted my change, why not my wallet, my passport? Heck, my life didn’t mean a thing to them. 

A car stopped as I bolted across the street. The driver jumped out and yelled, “Are you all right? Do you need safety? Get in! It’s safe.” I turned to answer. His concern was honest and generous, I could tell, but I was already safe. The children were on their knees gathering up the almost worthless coins.

I went to the market, bought some gifts, took a cab to the airport, and boarded the plane for the long flight home. I was back at work within a week.

*Read it. Seriously.

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