…Quite a few hours must have passed since the moment we were clinking the first beer glasses in an Irish pub until the next vivid memory I have: wondering “where the hell am I?” while drifting wasted along a dark narrow street.
Only a few blurry images remained in my recollection from the blank interval in between: a Rastafari guitarist playing a Gibson off the drummer’s beat and singing blissful stoner songs; a band of South African virtuosos playing some frisky cape-jazz rhythms; a beautiful black-eyed female violinist shifting her fiddle to an fro, producing mellow melodies; music and dance; different people in various places moving their lips up and down, emitting sounds, they too, which must have been words; glasses clinking; and yet more clinks…
That’s pretty much all I remember… and, of course, a constant alcohol effluvium. I have no idea how I ended up lost, alone in a mesh of cramped streets, in the middle of the dark night.
I kept walking in search of something familiar or someone to ask for directions. Even though it was night, I could not say the city was deserted. Many human voices frequently resounded through the dingy streets. As I was crossing a junction, I glanced aside and saw a dozen dudes, apparently homeless, all at the same time turning around to look at me. I did not find it a particularly smart idea to ask them and tell them I was lost. I thought it wiser to keep my way straight.
Another guy was now prancing up against me. I could only distinguish his spindly silhouette in this grimy backstreet. Only when we passed next to each other, I was able to detect a glow from his staring-directly-into-mine eyes. I also saw a prison tattoo on his throat, which was rendered visible by the dim light for a fraction of a second.
In a bit, I’d found myself in a well-lit street – relatively well-lit. I noticed a young girl walking down the pavement. Mostly instinctively, she seemed to me like the right person to ask. I proceeded straight towards her.
Eventually, we wound up in a park, carrying a bag of beers. We shared the place with a small colony of homeless people.
“Do not worry about them,” she told me after we had sat. “Here’s their home. I know most of them. They are good dudes. I also used to stay here.”
“But you don’t anymore?” I asked her.
“No! Now I have a job, and I rent a room,” she proclaimed, turning to face me with eyes radiating pride.
“But you used to be homeless, too, yes?”
“Yes,” she said indifferently. “I grew up in an orphanage. Then I lived in the streets for some time. Now I have a home.”
“Your parents, if I may ask?”
“I never met them. I don’t care.”
“Life can be hard sometimes, eh?”
“Life’s nice,” she said after some pondering.
I guzzled down a copious gulp from my beer and plunged into my thoughts for a spell.
A patrol car drove by the road in front of us at a crazy speed, siren screeching madly.
“Criminality levels must be high around here, eh?”
“Yes, indeed, very high,” she averred, giving a categorically affirmative nod. “A dozen people are being murdered daily in Cape Town, on average. Robberies, beatings, rapes… You do not do well rambling around here all alone in the middle of the night… You know, poverty, that’s what’s to blame.”
“Poverty, yes. I have already noticed. As a matter of fact, it does not take much to notice. But who do you think is responsible for it?”
“How should I know?” she said after casting a perplexed gaze straight into my eyes. “Some say the government, others say the whites, others fate, others God… I… do not know.”
Such things we talked about, we emptied two or three beer cans each, and we set about leaving. It was going to dawn soon.
Soon after we left the park, a gang of four or five guys, who did not seem exceptionally friendly, began stalking us. My new friend pulled me by the hand to pick up the pace.
As they kept nearing, scurrying along behind us, she about-faced abruptly, and in a thundering voice, told them something in some African language of theirs. I have, of course, no idea what exactly she may have said. But whatever it was, it worked. They stopped following us at once. She has some guts, I thought.
Some twenty steps later: “They wanted to rob you,” she told me.
“I know, I understood that,” I responded.
Soon after, we were on the Main Road, where I had asked her to lead me to in the first place. My hostel was about a kilometer straight from there.
She offered to accompany me all the way, telling me how dangerous it is, that they will rob me, and so on. I assured her there was no need, I will be fine, and the rest. The truth is I wasn’t much worried about getting robbed, as all I carried with me were my cheap clothes, an all but empty tobacco pouch, a lighter, a few coins (leftover from the beers), and a dagger.
So I bid her farewell and started walking up the Main Road.
Note: This story has been translated from my Greek book ‘From Cape Town to Alexandria’ narrating an overland trip from side to side of the African Continent.
The story you've just read is a part of my "Real Stories of Real People" collection, wherein I narrate my encounters with various remarkable characters I've run into while traveling around the world. The entire collection is published on my blog and may be read here. But if you'd like to get them with you to the beach in your ebook reader or as a physical book, and very appreciatedly support my creative activity, go ahead and grab your copy from Amazon for the cost of a cup of coffee.
