208 days ago
208 days ago
My African friends, Ishmael and Taakgi decided this Sotho name, which means ‘gift,’ suits me perfectly.
Phuthaditjhaba is our home, a rural South African town surrounded by the Drakensburg mountain range. Huge cliffs soar over like an eagle scouting its prey, while below mud huts, dirt roads and children baring their bottoms reveal an honest picture of abject poverty.
While the farmers go about their mundane routine of tilling the fields, African singing is getting louder and louder, eventually interrupting village life. Intrigued, video camera in hand, I rush outside, and glimpse a street parade. My friends are also on the dirt road craning their necks for a better view. I begin to film the singing, dancing and shrieking which exemplifies the Africa I love. It’s an opportunity not to be missed.
The parade approaches. There is a head man out front. His moves are mechanical; his dark eyes intense. His look frightens me. Nostrils flaring and with a determination in his step, he strides toward me. I sense trouble. Camera off, I put it by my side.
“You are not allowed to film us!”
“Ok. I’ve turned it off.” I reply in haste.
“Give me that tape” he demands.
“I won’t give you the tape, but I will delete the footage” I negotiate.
The tape has all my African footage. I can’t hand it over.
My response infuriates the head man.
“Give me the tape. You are not allowed to film us” he yells, pointing his gangly finger at me.
Ishmael comes to my side and they argue in Sotho. Suddenly the man grabs the camera from my side. Cowering like a scared puppy I burst into tears. Though I am frightened I am also determined not to be defeated by this horrible man. Ish jumps in, and the three of us wrestle over the camera like hyenas fighting over a prized carcass.
Ish breaks free, camera in his hands. Relief and confidence fill me.
Ish has saved me.
Tears are now freely falling. I am hysterical. The arguing continues, but he will not listen.
A police car screams to a halt and two policemen jump out. One policeman sees my tear-streaked face. “Why you cry for?” he chuckles. A foreign country and language is no longer a gift; it’s a trap and I am feeling extremely vulnerable. I wish I had never pressed ‘record.’
Finally, the man accepts the compromise of deleting the footage.
The ordeal is over.
Ish, Taakgi and I saunter home. I catch Ish showing Taakgi a large knife in his waistband. “What’s that?” I ask. He sheepishly replies “I ran home and got this when I saw things getting out of hand, just in case.” I suddenly comprehended that this ordeal could have ended in tragedy.
Clouding my vision, tears continue to flow. I’m gripped by feelings of foolishness, ignorance and naivety which overwhelm me. I am an outsider, in a strange land. Different customs, traditions and beliefs must be respected. I have learnt an incredible lesson.
Travel is a gift; our responsibility is to embrace the culture around us, whilst respecting the differences.
I am Mpho. I am still learning.
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