Happy Accident?

Photo provided by Malay Mail Online. This photo is from a completely separate event and is only used as an illustration to my unique experience. 

My phone is littered with unnecessary, crappy pictures and videos. I decided the ones not up to par had be deleted into oblivion to free up more space. I gunned for the videos first, sending several to the chopping block. 

Then I stumbled upon a gem. A video narration I took mere minutes after one of the most terrifying events of my life. 

It was my third day of my solo transatlantic excursion. The original plan was to go to Italy with my good buddy Cory, but, due to unforeseen budget sequestrations, his government contracted employment appeared to be in jeopardy. A trip to Italy just wasn't a wise financial move for him at the time. 

I had airline credits from another failed vacation attempt the prior year set to expire in two weeks. I was dead set on going overseas somewhere, damn it. But who was going to have the cash and open schedule to fly across the ocean on a whim? Nobody in my circle. It just wasn't feasible. With the goal of stepping foot on each continent (not named Antarctica) before I plunge into holy matrimony in mind, I decided to go somewhere no one had ever expressed interest in going even with five years notice: South Africa. 

I had done just that, becoming a mere speck on the map as I cruised down the highway, car on the left side of the yellow line, steering wheel placed on the right side of the sedan. In the rear-view mirror stood Johannesburg, the city and two days of memories I had left behind to instead dive more into the wild heart of Africa. I was on my way to Kruger National Park to see the Big 5, to marvel at lions, leopards, buffalo, elephants and rhinos and whatever else may come in something resembling their natural habitat. I was thrilled. 

But the old adage "It's not the destination but the journey" would prove true on this day. 

Perhaps I was too fixated on not mixing up my turn-signal and windshield-wiper fluid sticks again, but, unbeknownst to me, I inadvertently told my GPS to avoid toll roads. Big mistake. 

Blissfully unaware of my error, I was soaking up the South African countryside, a big departure from the hustle and bustle of "Jo-burg." Even though the skyscrapers  slipped below the horizon, the voice of the city was still ever present in the form of talk radio. 

Unlike America's political talk radio, both host and callers were incredibly civil, polite and poignant with their words and demeanor. I would assume the current incarnation is a far cry from the days of Apartheid. Either way, I was envious. It seemed so productive and engaging. 

In between debates about whether the local rugby team's new military camouflage jerseys were too similar to the ruthless secret police that once violently defended Apartheid and how safe and valuable their currency (the Rand) was, there'd be little news blurbs about traffic lights being out (an all too common occurrence there), how the main entrance to a mining facility was the site of contentious labor union protests and which elected officials were accused of corruption. It felt both familiar and like new ground.

While South Africa's rates of violent crimes have dropped significantly over the years, particularly Jo'burg, there's still a seedy underside to the Rainbow Nation. I began to pass highway signs that read, "Hi (car)-Jacking hot spot." I made a decision that if I drew the short straw I was going to do everything I could to escape. I knew everything would be fine though. 

That's when my GPS slip up came to exact its price. 

Photo provided by Windsor Star

Instead of continuing down the relatively safe confines of the highway and passing through toll booths, I was instead directed to take a nearby exit. As I turned around a blind corner onto the single-lane road, my car was suddenly surrounded. 30-40 men, many carrying, what I assume were, tribal shields, large sticks and swatches. They ran from the sidewalk and engulfed my sedan, chanting in unison. I instinctively slammed my breaks to avoid hurting anyone, but immediately questioned if put the wrong pedal to the floor.  

I don't have a racist bone in my body, but it became quickly evident to me they were all black. I know South Africa is largely past it racially driven violence, but, like American, dynamics on that front can change on a dime, for all races, from one region/county to the next. Plus, they've had a slew of violent anti-immigrant protests in recent years. 

To be honest, I've rarely been so terrified in my life. 

I weighed my options in a nano second. I could just slam the accelerator and plow through these guys, but it's just not in my heart to kill a handful of people. Apparently I wasn't going to live up to my decision to escape at all costs. As nonsensical as it may sound, I wasn't going down without a fight either. My right hand grabbed the hilt of my pocket knife I wedged between my seat and storage compartment, just in case. If they busted the windows, reached in and pulled me out, I was doing as much damage as I could possibly inflict.

Before I did anything tragic, my cerebral microprocessors began to notice that all the men were wearing red t shirts. They were smiling and dancing. Does it really take 30-40 people to carjack and/or murder somebody? Are those protest signs?

Then it dawned on me this wasn't a criminal act but one of protest. They were members of a labor union taking part in an energetic, borderline joyous protest. There gestures implied to me they wanted me to show some sign of solidarity. I obliged by letting go of my knife and giving a thumbs up instead. This garnered a few cheers. Then I honked the horn repeatedly, emphasizing my newfound and enthusiastic approval and support for their cause. I didn't know the nuances and stances of either side, but was I really in a position to argue against them? I'd say no. 

I doubt it's always like this, but it appears sometimes labor protests are half party, half protest. Photo provided by LA Times. 

Once my honking ceased, the red t shirt sea parted and I slowly drove off as then men smiled, waived and held up their shields to show their gratitude. It was quite an unexpected spectacle; one I'll never forget.

As the tsunami rush of adrenaline slowly receded, I continued to follow my GPS's directions, still unaware of my blunder. No more than a mile up from where I encountered the protesters was the main entrance to a mining or processing facility -- up in flames.  I had stumbled upon a national news event I had just heard about on the radio an hour before. 

Emergency crews were putting out the flames, but doing it in such a nonchalant manner you would have thought it was business as usual. As it turns out, labor union protests in South Africa are no joke. This probably wasn't the first or last time the entrance had been incinerated. 

Just a few hundred meters later I entered a small town. There was music in the square, shops open and cart vendor trying to peddle their wares while kids darted all around. It was simultaneously bizarre and normal all at once, borderline festive even. All this in the context of, what I guess is, the town's biggest cash cow having its main entrance aflame.   

A national news event happening in their backyard and everyone's chill, enjoying life. South Africans are endearing, to put it mildly. With so many things on our lives and society seemingly up in flame, maybe the best course of action sometimes is to dance in the square. 

It was only on my way from Kruger did I realize the error I had made on the way to the park. I adjusted the GPS accordingly. I covered the distance between Kruger and Jo'burg much faster but without a story to tell. 

Accidents are often happy. 

Doesn't add to the story, but I put this in because the picture was taken by yours truly.