Africa's not for Sissies

Chapter 5: No Taxis in Jo'burg

I proceeded through immigration and scanned the airport for Ammon's friend. I didn't see her. I shouldered my pack. The straps dug into my chest like someone was pulling on the back of my pack. Nobody was – I checked. With wobbly legs, I took a few faltering steps and swore I would lighten my pack the first chance I got.

The entry hall was bland. The floor was covered in well-worn beige tiles and the walls were yellowing. The air was warm and humid and had a strange smell, as if the air-conditioning wasn't working properly. I heard voices calling out.

"Yes? What you need?"

"Psst! Over here!"

"Psst! You need taxi?"

The magazine I'd read on the plane warned that scam artists and hustlers worked at the airport. I was to refuse all offers for assistance, and walk quickly and with purpose as if I knew exactly where I was going, so as not to appear confused and vulnerable, but I was already beginning to sweat under the weight of my pack. I slowed my pace without realizing and before I could stop myself, I began to look around with a wistful look upon my face. Where was she?

"Psst, psst!"

"What you need?"

I continued to ignore the calls, bit my lip, and scanned the airport. I heard a male voice call out. "Will!"

I turned to see a girl that looked almost exactly like the photo Ammon had showed me: dark hair, olive skin, rosy cheeks, but her hair was shorter now. The local time was 5:00am, but she seemed chipper.

"Annalie?"

"Are you Ammon's brother?" she asked. Her voice was deep, and not at all what I would have expected from a petite girl, but not exactly a male voice either.

"I am."

She reached out to hug me. I lifted my arms to return the hug and immediately began to teeter backwards. My arms windmilled for balance. She grabbed me by my straps and pulled me forward. For the briefest moment I fantasized she was pulling me in for a kiss.

She smiled at me. "Ag shame, you've got your pack on wrong." She walked behind me and unzipped my daypack from my main pack. "Put your hands out."

I did as she instructed and she slid the straps of my daypack around my shoulders so that it lay against my chest.

"Lekker, is better ja? But let me help you now-now."

She spoke with the same funny accent as the customs officials. I was too embarrassed to admit it, but I didn't know South Africans had an accent before my arrival. I'd heard of English accents and Australian accents, but I'd never heard of a South African accent. I wasn't entirely sure what she was saying, but I think she was offering to carry my daypack.

"No, I got it." I took a few cautious steps. I felt like a turtle, with my backpack on my back and my daypack on my front, but she was right, it was much better this way.

Outside, I struggled to keep pace as she hurried to her car. I dropped my pack into the 'boot,' as she called the trunk, and walked over and stood next to the passenger side door.

She stared at me. I stared back with a blank expression, wondering why she wasn't getting into the driver's side of the car and letting me in. Wasn't it supposed to be dangerous around here? Shouldn't we be hurrying inside and locking the doors? But she just continued to stare.

Her face broke into a smirk. "Are you driving?" she asked.

Puzzled, I looked at her, then at the car, then at her again, and then back at the car. Then I noticed the steering wheel was on the wrong side of the car. I stood there looking befuddled for a moment until it dawned on me that they must drive on the left in South Africa. I grinned at her, embarrassed by how little I knew about her country, and walked around to the other side of the car.