As white Africans approaching our mid-40s, we had served our
apprenticeship dodging bullets, getting robbed, fighting wars, caring for the
less fortunate, running charitable organizations and community reform
initiatives up our wazoo (see!! I learned a Canadianism).
I guess it is human
nature, to reach the age of 40something and realize that a population of
30million with an annual murder rate exceeding 15 000, and 607 000+ other
violent crimes including attempted murder, rape, robbery and assault is not a
nice community. We were shopping for a
nicer community.
Our jobs took us all over the world. Because we worked with
drug addicted youngsters trapped in prostitution in the slums, we were sent
hither and thither by foreign governments to go teach our craft in other
countries. Therefore, our job took us to the slums of foreign countries, all
over the world.
We had many options for emigration because unlike many of
our countrymen and women, we had rare qualifications that opened doors for us;
we had clean police records and legitimate degrees (albeit in the humanities). Additionally,
we were relatively rich because we had saved for more than a decade, we had
almost $25,000. It is true that $4,000 goes to plane tickets, $800 to visa
applications, $14,000 for applications to immigrate but still, we had the
money. I have heard that some people don’t swallow and I don’t blame them, but
I was excited because truly, the world was our oyster.
We had a short list; Netherlands, USA, UK, India or Uruguay.
I was still working on my pros and cons list when I had to make a trip to
Edmonton in Canada to attend a conference on prostitution.
"Where’s Edmonton?”
asked my teenage son.
“In Canada,” I said. “Where’s Canada?”
We googled it and what do you know, there she was, sitting
on the face of the USA. My elderly neighbour said, “Canada sucks. Kitchener
used them to kill more than a hundred thousand women and children in the
concentration camps in the land grab they call the Boer War. They are British,
and you know how treacherous those people are, be careful.”
“Are they worse than Mandela, Uncle Nick?” I had to ask,
because it is always a treasure to hear.
“Jeezus yes, ten times worse. Mandela doesn’t even talk to
Margaret Thatcher, he hates her!”
It was May in Toronto when my plane circled to land. What an ugly place! I had never seen that many flat roofs before. No
leaves, sticks for trees, from the air, ugly as sin.
Pearson airport
sucks. You land, get your luggage and there’s a door and whap! youre in the
street and someone bundles you into a taxi. “No, I need to exchange some money”
I protested.
“OK, I’ll wait,” he says, “you can leave your bags in the
trunk”. Yea, like hell you’ll wait, I thought but decided to take the risk because it looked well regulated out there, but ‘in the trunk’. What the heck, who talks
like that? ‘In the trunk?’
I rushed to get some Canadian money and in the hurry,
a fellow at the window next to mine, who had used the same travel agent and therefore
had the same plastic folder for tickets, IDs, credit cards, and passport and
money—he left with my stuff while I was counting my money. I was doomed. Twenty
minutes in the country and already they ruined my life—for the second time,
since the Boer War. I ran for my luggage because that heart specialist with the
taxi had my stuff in his trunk. At least the good doctor was not Canadian; he was
waiting just as he had promised. I gave him $20 and offloaded. Had to go talk to
the airline to see if I could get onto tomorrow’s connecting flight to
Edmonton.
No go. Cannot board that plane without a ticket. Not even if
the seat is vacant at time of departure. Damn the British.
I had one maxed-out credit
card and $300 in cash, so I decided to rent a car to drive to Edmonton. The
fellow at Hertz showed real emotion when I explained my sorrows about the lost
tickets and passport. When I explained to him that I want a car to drive to
Edmonton for the conference the next day, again he showed real emotion. I think
it was a bit much for him to handle because he had to take a break, just to
walk behind a screen, compose himself and come back after a few seconds. In
retrospect, I must say that he was kind about the whole thing. He took me into
the boss’ office, and showed me on the map—Toronto is here, and Edmonton is theere.
I said, the Lord’s name in vain as I realized that I would have to drive
non-stop. I would be a mess at the conference but hey, cowboys don’t cry.
“Sir, you would have to drive for three days non-stop to get
there.”
“No, the conference would be all over by then.”
Then it struck me. Canada is big, really, really big. “My
country has the same population as you guys and it probably fits into Ontario,
or maybe Quebec,” I said.
“No.” Said the pleasant young man with the very good manners
in his very Canadian polite manner. “I don’t think your country would want to
fit into Quebec.” It took me four years to catch that joke.
I was marooned.
If there are two things in life I am expert
at, getting robbed and stopping smoking are at the top of the list. I had been
working in the slums of cities in Africa, India and the worst places in Europe
but it took a Canadian to teach me who is the boss. I was devastated and ashamed.
Later that evening I took a taxi to Toronto. Asked for a
cheap hotel, the cheapest possible. It was dingy, smelly, and tacky but not cheap. In my country, you can get a top suite in a top hotel for that price.
About two in the morning I was
walking in the streets (my sheets smelled like grandmas shoes) contemplating my
terrible predicament when yet another taxi stopped and asked if I needed help.
“Why,
do I look as if I need help?” I said much less friendlier than the previous
times.
“No sir, not at all but this is a very dangerous area you know,” said
the driver, shaking his head like only an Indian can shake his head—you know,
that move they make that looks like they are saying yes and no at the same time
just in case either would have been disappointing to you. I paid him $20 to
drive me around and tell me about the dangers of the slums of Toronto.
“This is the most dangerous city in Canada, you must always
be on high alert,” he said. “Last year we topped the scales, most murderous
year ever.”
“How many?”
“Oh, it was horrific, something like 166 people.”
“Per day?”
“Oh goodness no. For the year!”
I know Indians, but not too many civil engineers from India,
so I had to study the man for a while. He was yanking my chain, for sure. A
city of five million people, just like Johannesburg. We kill more than 160 policemen
in Johannesburg every month. Where was he going with his story, I wondered,
smelling a scam. But my $20 ran out and I had to go smell shoes for the rest of
the night.
Following morning, I went back to Pearson to see If I could manage
a ticket to go back home.
At one time, deeply frustrated and looking for a coffee, I
walked past the place of misfortune where my passport, tickets and Ids were
stolen. I dint even look in her direction, couldn’t bear it. In fact, I think I
was close to tears of disappointment and anger. The bloody British.
Someone ran up to me from behind in high heels, I stepped
aside for her to pass. It was her. She grabbed my arm. She beamed from ear to
ear; huffing and a puffin she said, “He brought it back he discovered it in his
bag last night at home he lives in Brantford and he brought it back this
morning early he was here when I opened...”
She wanted to cry, so happy she was for me. I cried with
her.
The traveller’s cheques were all there, all the tickets,
passport, driver license, insurance, contact numbers, credit card and a kinky
message from my wife on a post-it note.
I phoned home and told my wife that the place is not all
that bad. Ugly, and cold, but the people...I could not believe it. I made it in
time to board the plane to Edmonton. What a day. What nice people. I mean, they
are really nice. My faith in humanity had been restored, no not just restored,
my faith in humanity came alive again because of the Canadians.
As I approached the gate to board the plane, an American in
uniform stepped up and demanded to see my visa for the USA. I come from a
military background. I come from a rough and tough country and I have been in
combat, but I had never in my life seen such a dickhead in a uniform. What an
attitude! I decided to not like the chap. “I don’t have a visa for the USA. I
am not going to the USA. This is probably the wrong line; I want to be on the
plane to Edmonton...”
“This is the plane to Edmonton. It stops over In Minneapolis
and you have to deplane, so you need a visa for the USA.”
Deplane. What the hell kind of word is that? Who speaks like
that? Deplane. “Well, I don’t have one,” I stated without fear, breaking the
rule, I looked the wild thing directly in the eye.
“In that case sir, you are attempting to enter the United
States of America without permission,” he said, making a gesture as if to go
for his handcuffs.
I had a sick feeling that my day was about to get very interesting...
To Be Continued
