last christmas

Amani Christmas—one side of the story. [I wrote this just after new years 2006 while on Christmas break in South Africa]

Break-ins, murder, carjacking, suicide, security, lasers, guard dogs. Feels like dozens of my conversations over the past few weeks have been picking tender scabbed flesh off of a stinging wound. We got the run down on the “code words” for the trained killers at Amani. Still trying to figure out the myriad security codes to punch into the satellite-connected consoles. So we get away for an evening, Christmas eve, only to find our discussion turned to why they’ve covered the pedestrian overpasses with heavy-gauge fencing. Our pastor warned us as we said our cheery “Merry Christmas, and Thank You!” goodbyes, he said, ‘stay alert, I always keep a keen eye along the N2. They call it ‘Death Alley’ you know. Just yesterday another guy was nearly killed when some bloke dropped a brick from a bridge. They’ve been known to take people out, decapitate them really, then lift the car.’ “Oh, great, thanks. Merry Christmas to you too! And thanks again for the lovely meal. Oh, and I’ll try not to get my face smashed in on the way home.”

Then Christmas night, conversations with Rian, our ex-cop tactical weapons trainer night guard. As we shared coffee and pecan pie he talked about the overrun prisons, crooked corrections officers and “the number”—the cultish prison gangs. Of course he regaled us with gruesome tales of robberies and a cuckoo estate-owner who is out to murder anything that moves on his property (and who turns up to be our near neighbor just down the hill).

We find ourselves at Obzside Scuba and we just passed our theory course work. Over a celebratory beer Sean tells us about how a group of guys tried to jack his car last night. They slowed down to a crawl in front of him—he felt it was fishy and so passed them up quickly. They stayed hot on his tail chasing him for a while then mysteriously called it off. Sean sneered a bit and laughed it off, swigged a gulp and moved on to other conversation. All in a (cape town) day’s work…I guess.

Two days later on our way to the dive shop, we drive slowly in procession past some cones, flares and flashing lights. Then the nondescript, pile of a shirt and trousers loosely covering a contorted body, lifeless inside them. We read about it in the paper the next day over a cup of French press and iced chai at the Somerset Mall—a desperate suicide dive off the overpass. I’m starting to wonder, ‘what kind of world do we live in where I have to dodge decapitation and depressed people launching themselves in front of my speeding car! Sounds like a scene out of Huxley’s Brave New World.

New Year’s eve comes round—we’re tired and decide to head off to bed early. Our SWAT guard, Rian, comes around to let us know he’ll be keeping Charlie—the younger Alsatian bitch—with him tonight. He’s uncharacteristically serious and obviously frightened. Said both of our neighbors below and above us were broken into last night. ‘It’ll only be a matter of time….’ And so we arm ourselves with laser beams, bars, trained killer dogs, a permanent 24hr guard with a small mobile army unit we can deploy at the touch of a panic button or a phone call, and, of course, a maglight. “Sleep tight baby. Let’s keep the window open to the dog pen so the dogs can jump right in and kill the guy as he comes down the hall at us.” ‘Good plan. Happy New year. Luv ya, good night.’

Then with heavy eyelids but throbbing pulse we wonder if somehow someone got in during the day while the lasers were off. What if they’re hiding somewhere inside? Should we have the dogs do a sweep of the entire estate? They’re trained to do that of course. And we lie absolutely still on our backs straining to stretch our ears. Surrounded by the softest Egyptian cotton in our king-size bed, we can’t enjoy the luxury tonight as our recalcitrant minds race back over Anne’s story….
SCREEECH! I pulled a hamstring muscle as I literally jumped bolt upright in bed when the security alarm screamed at me, coldly announcing our first morning of 2006. After a delirious blurry sweep of the house (what would I have done with the a maglight if someone were actually inside?), I comforted myself to think that the automated sprinklers tripped the laser outside our bedroom—I just wanted to get back to my pillow. After typing the code and giving the password to the armed response unit over the phone, I retreated to bed to lower my pulse and let my body absorb all the adrenaline visibly coursing through my neck and eye sockets. New Year’s day braai and of course we have to talk security, disparity, crime, and the hopeless racial struggles of South Africa. Ahhh, and a jolly festive season to you too, as I drain my champagne.