Don’t get jacked in Johannesburg

It’s hard to appreciate the size of a city like Johannesburg.

It’s one thing to hear that a city has a few million residents or has a high crime rate, but Friday was proof that some of the best lessons in life must be taught through observation. After spending most of my day in the heart of South Africa’s largest city I left with deeper insight about what drives South Africans.

As much as my two weeks in Africa are a soccer foray, I wanted to learn more about this country and continent with my own eyes and own experiences rather than what others have seen and written. Well aware that my blog is doing exactly what I am decrying I was not in search of the truth, or facts, but an opinion about one of the world’s most dangerous cities.

I woke up in the suburb of Hillside 20 minutes before my alarm went off excited to witness one of the biggest days in South African history without the help of a television.

The warmth Derek and Cathy Smith showed me upon my arrival to the country and during my stay at their bed and breakfast would illustrate the dichotomy that so many “Westerners” don’t see or read about when they hear of Johannesburg. What many people hear about is the small park about 1,000 feet from the Johannesburg Park Station where a handful of men were interested in robbing me as I enjoyed a mid-afternoon snack.

The Smiths operate a bed and breakfast from their home where the names of the rooms they provide to visitors all have women’s names. It’s on top of a hill that allows visitors to see most of the city of gold and the new Soccer City stadium that upon completion became the African mecca of soccer. Even the conversations I had with other visitors — all of whom were from Canada — we warm encounters.

Derek dropped me off in downtown after I expressed interest in watching the game from a pub or sports bar. It wasn’t until later that I remembered different countries have different cultures and sports bars may not be the popular or safe thing to do in South Africa.

I wondered about for about 45 minutes searching for the bus depot, observing the downtown, watching people blow their vuvuzelas, and soaking up the atmosphere that those in the streets hoped would encourage their boys later in the afternoon. The first thing I did was buy a newspaper to see how South Africa would chronicle the event.

The pictures, colors, graphics and size of the newspaper were all bigger and broader than what I was used to in the U.S. And on a day like June 11, 2010 I was appreciative for that.

There was not much time to read the paper. For starters there was nowhere to sit in the downtown. The places that did have seating did not look like an appealing option for an American traveler.

Thinking a park just outside the depot would be a nice place to sit and eat a bite and enjoy the scenes I was approached by a man who wanted me to take a picture of him and his dice-rolling friends. He spoke of many things including my “spectacles” and about my thoughts about living in France. The more we spoke the less comfortable I felt telling him anything of consequence about who I was, why I was in South Africa and most importantly my nationality.

It was not until three gentlemen in orange bibs approached me and asked whether I was a tourist that I got away from the gaggle of men who I was later told would have robbed me had I stayed in their presence much longer.

The three men, who were security guards at the tournament, walked me the half mile to Joubert Park to watch the opening ceremony as well as the first match of the World Cup between the hosts and Mexico. The long-awaited game started at 4 p.m. We arrived at Joubert at 2:20 so I could find a seat and get ready for a colorful opening that only Africa could produce.

Not prone to repeat the same mistake, I kept my camera and camcorder in my pocket, with my hands on both while at Joubert. The incredible noise of the vuvuzelas and the explosion of pride in the Bafana Bafana were a sight to see—and certainly one to record.

The match ended a little after dark. Armed with more sense than earlier in the day, I walked back to the bus depot with someone.

She was a tournament volunteer who is in her third year at the university studying urban and regional planning. I didn’t catch her name, but we spoke about safety in Johannesburg, perception versus reality in South Africa and why the suburbs like Sandton have all the money and amenities while the central city does not.

I made my way back to the bus station and connected with my transport to Vereeniging (pronounced: v-air-reen-a-hing) on the far south end of the city and completed my day in Johannesburg. It’s probably the last time I will spend any considerable hours in the central city.

Considering I left with my possessions, my money and a new opinion...the first day of the FIFA World Cup at least produced one victory — one for South Africa.