An Unfortunate Donation

It was a sunny afternoon in Cape Town. It was the middle of the day. I was just off a major thoroughfare. It wasn’t as if I was wandering dark alleys at night in Johannesburg. And yet, here I was confronted by three local boys, one of whom in his thick South African accent – normally charming, I might add – was advising me to “Give us your fucking money. I’ve got a knife.”

I was just returning to Long Street market to browse some items, leaving my group to do so (ah, if hindsight were foresight), and here on my way back these three hooligans were robbing me blind. To make matters worse, I was within spitting distance of my own group of hooligans. In fact, they were watching me get robbed through the window of a smoothie shop across the street. “We wondered why you were giving them money,” one would confess moments later.

My inclination in this moment was not to cry for help or throw punches. I froze. It turns out I have neither a fight nor flight response. I hadn’t seen the knife, but I knew in this town you don’t ask to see the weapon threatening you, lest its existence be proven by its use. I opened my wallet to reveal about $20 worth of South African Rand, alongside $50. Why I was inclined to carry US currency in Cape Town to begin with I handed over every bill of every nationality I had, hoping to make this exchange quick.

I had $600 worth of camera equipment in my bag, containing some 1500 photos from four countries’ worth of travels already. There was no price to be put on the contents of that bag, and the adrenaline coursing through my veins was clouding any sense of loss I felt over the cash I handed over.

The kids took off. My friends felt terrible. I felt humiliated and violated. I wondered whether they really were hooligans or just needed the cash to survive. I certainly didn’t. Instead from the transaction I was given a reminder about true value – photos, experiences, sentimental value – as well as a free smoothie from my guilt-ridden friends.