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The Angels of Cape Town
By Roy A. Barnes

From May 2002 until June 2004, I worked in the airline industry. My favorite fringe benefit was the flight benefits afforded to employees. One of my travels included a journey to Cape Town, South Africa, in May 2003. The most memorable part of my trip to Cape Town was not the stunning views of Table Mountain, whose summit is dwarfed by cloud cover, which is known as "The Table Cloth" to the locals. Nor was it the Victoria and Alfred Waterfront, which emanated a deep sense of tranquility into me, even when it was packed with tourists. Neither was it the pilgrimage I made to Robben Island, where most of Nelson Mandela’s prison-time was spent. The most memorable event from my Cape Town odyssey unfolded my very first night in the city:

Because I had traveled to Cape Town as a standby passenger, I didn't want to commit to any sleeping arrangements. I thought I would have no problem finding inexpensive and safe accommodations somewhere in the downtown area. I blindly assumed that it would be a perfectly fine area to wander around at anytime. After my arrival to Cape Town International Airport, I asked the first shuttle driver I could find to take me to any decent hostel or hotel in the center of town. He dropped me off at this hostel that had 1960’s hippie culture designs on the outside of it, yet loud rap music was blaring within the establishment. I went inside and the surly attendant told me it would be 100 Rand per night to stay. He let me see the room I would be sleeping in. A backpacker was snoring loudly in one of the beds. His gear was strewn across the dimly lit room. I decided that this wasn't the place for me, so I exited and started walking with all my luggage, which consisted of my trusty Rick Steves’ backpack (the kind the European travel guru boldly claims he uses a hundred days a year in his European travels), and a knapsack that I carried in my arms.

I walked several blocks, as dusk gave way to total darkness in the sky, on sheer faith I'd find a more suitable and economical place to rest my head for the night. I finally came across a plain-looking but inviting hostel. I felt a sense of relief as I was buzzed inside. That feeling was quickly dissipated when the front desk attendant informed me that she only accepted cash. I only had US traveler's checks on me. In addition, the stoutly built woman informed me that at this time of night, the only places open for travelers checks’ conversion were at the distant Victoria and Alfred Waterfront. She offered to call me a cab, but I told her I would rather walk. The caretaker of the hostel would not accept my answer, virtually ordering me to take a cab, due to the frequent muggings at night in the area. Retrospectively, I was very fortunate to not have been robbed en route to this hostel. I must've stood out like a tourist walking those several blocks with my luggage. Luckily for me, the streets I trekked were barren of people. I went back and forth with her saying I'd be fine, when all the sudden several street youth started banging on the lobby window begging for money. The desk attendant darted out from around the counter, unlocked the entry door, and cursed at the adolescents in a Zulu language while the impoverished gang skirted off.

I took that as a sign to give in to her admonitions. As she went back to the counter to dispatch a ride for me, two Cape Town Tourist Police officers rang the buzzer to come inside. They wanted to know how things were going. The desk attendant told them that I had wanted to walk to the V&A Waterfront. When the patrolmen heard that, they, too, strongly advised me not to walk there at that time of night. But one of the men told the clerk to not bother calling me a cab. He immediately dispatched a unit to come by so it could transport me to the waterfront. This was quite pleasantly surprising to me, as the police in my Wyoming hometown don't offer rides to anyone walking, even in a blizzard! Yet in Cape Town, South Africa, I was being treated like a V.I.P!

The driver was an affable fellow with the Tourist Police. He drove really fast, nearly running over three pedestrians while escorting me to the waterfront. In his haste to get me to my destination, he ran a red light. Sitting next to him was this very petite, uniformed woman of the Cape Town City Police who was carrying a loaded gun at her side. He quipped to her after the intersection camera’s flash went off, capturing the squad car’s license plate number, "Damn, that's another 500 Rand that I will have to come up with!"

Soon, we arrived in front of the Victoria Wharf Shopping Centre. The officers waited for me to get my checks converted at the Thomas Cook Exchange inside the mall, and then offered to drive me back to the hostel. Because of the utter sense of peace that came over me while I was at the waterfront, I decided tolook for a hotel there. I was told by my escorts that it would be more costly to stay in this area, but that was fine with me. The V&A Waterfront proved to be a safe wandering around and jogging spot no matter what time of day or night I ventured outside.

I come back from each trip I take abroad relishing in my experiences with the locals who help me get to where I desire to go in their countries and who watch out for my safety. Of all my journeys around the globe, my protectors in Cape Town still retain the first place position in my heart!

Roy A. Barnes lives in Cheyenne, Wyoming. His travel articles have appeared at Live Life Travel, GoNOMAD.com, Transitions Abroad, and The Valley Advocate.