When the smoke clears, help is at hand
Acouple of years ago, I bought a truly second-hand Toyota Land Cruiser Model 60, from the ’80s. It had lived at the coast (where it will continue to live) and had the rust to prove it, but it’s a fabulous 4x4, with a 4.5-litre engine. It goes up Kloof Nek Road in Cape Town in fourth gear — what can I say? It has done 310 000 rough kilometres, and, truth be known, I haven’t been looking after it. I’ve never checked the oil or water. I should have. I was taking my two young sons, Angus and Oliver, aged 12 and 10, from Cape Town to Hermanus in early January. It was a hot day, probably over 30°C, in our parched Mother City, so, after a while, I pulled open the rusty air vents, only to be practically asphyxiated from the smoke that poured in from the engine. Eish!
As luck would have it, we were only a few hundred metres from the traffic control/community centre just a few kilometres from the airport, on the N2 highway. The three of us hobbled barefoot across the gravel to seek help, but we were told they couldn’t help and didn’t even have the telephone number of a reliable towing service — go figure.
As we began to sulk-walk back to our broken-down vehicle, two local young coloured men, Shuaib and Rino, pulled up next to us in a construction bakkie. “You shouldn’t be walking around here like this,” I was advised. “This is well known for being a hijacking hot spot!”
“Well, I hadn’t planned to break down here,” I responded.
“We’d like to help you.”
“Can I first just confirm that you’re not hijacking me?” I asked.
We all laughed, my boys rather more nervously than the rest of us, and I felt safe, just like that. “How much will you charge?” I checked.
“Ag, just pay us for the petrol, it’s not about that.”
We hitched the Land Cruiser to their bakkie, and I was safely towed to the airport, where I could leave my car at the nearby BP petrol station. I’d make a plan to get it later — it was Saturday afternoon. I squeezed into the front of the bakkie and the boys jumped onto a mattress at the back, and we did a loop back to the airport, where I would be able to hire a car and resume our trip, safe and sound.
Before I got out, I paused to ask them why they’d stopped to help this stranded old white guy with his two barefoot kids. “We’ve made some mistakes in our lives, and we’re starting to build ourselves up again. This is just part of that adventure,” said Shuaib. I was overwhelmed.
We sat and chatted for a while, about money, and women, and work, and life and our country, and the future we had to share. I shared some of my life lessons. When you’re older, you’ve seen more movies, that’s all. I talked of my (so many) mistakes; I listened to some of theirs. We learnt from each other.
As I got out to leave, I handed over some cash, way more than the cost of petrol. “Thank you,” said Shuaib, “but it’s not about that.” “I know,” I replied.
So, what’s the point? There are several. There is more goodwill and more hope than there is evil and despair in our country. Strangers, poles apart by any social or economic measure, helped each other out on that highway. There was a problem to be solved. Someone (them, in this instance) had to take the first step towards the solution, to extend a helping hand that, in turn, had to be willingly accepted.
That’s how we are going to solve our problems and realise our opportunities in South Africa, together. Only if we do it together. That’s how we are going to address inequality, poverty and unemployment — in partnership. So, let’s get on with it. I am convinced we can do it.
I talked of my (so many) mistakes; I listened to some of theirs. We learnt from each other