Crime and crime talk

As a South African I think it is important to distinguish between interpersonal violence, crime and ‘crime-talk’. Let’s start with ‘crime’ and let’s be honest for a second: we all commit crime in the sense that we all break the law sometimes. Who, in this country, doesn’t occasionally drive a vehicle while over the legal alcohol limit? Which South African pays all their traffic fines, sticks to the speed limits, isn’t involved in corporate fraud, pays their TV license and never evades paying taxes? I think it is safe to say that, on occasion, we all transgress the law. Interpersonal violence on the other hand is a terrible, traumatic experience that many people in this country have endured at the hands of other people, people who usually have a blatant disregard for human rights. And then there is ‘crime talk’, which is what white South Africans do to explain why they have such a harsh lot between braaivleis, beach holidays and Bonny Tyler. Even though people in the townships experience at least three times more crime than white folks, whites are always holding up their lot in comparison to places like Australia. Perth! I was recently at an NGO launchy thing and the speaker was saying that we shouldn’t say things like ‘oh Perth is so wonderful, let’s go to Perth, but you should rather try to make your home town like Perth. Let Perth come to you’.

Fuck that!

Seriously? Who the hell wants to make their home town be like Perth? For one, it would then be full of Australians and racist ex-South Africans talking about all the crime they are missing out on. Secondly, life would be quite boring, excitement would consist of wagging one of those big sponge finger pointy things at a game some folks call football, where the players wear ridiculous little cycling shorts and, thirdly, you would be surrounded by Australian men, who only talk about the length of their peckers and how gay they are not. Please god, let Perth stay in Perth thank you very much.

One place where you are likely to encounter a healthy dollop of the ‘South African crime talk show’, in its live form, is in places like New York, London and Amsterdam, at the airport gate where you wait before boarding a flight to Johannesburg or Cape Town. I hate these places and make a point of putting my iPod on loudly so as not to be tortured by the crime talk gaggle. I was once cornered by a young guy in Athens airport, one of those self-righteous ex-South Africans who persists in asking you “why you do it”, “how do you do it”, as if living in this country and enjoying an incredibly high standard of living, as a wealthy South African, was akin to being bound and gagged and placed in front of a television with only Steve Hofmeyer music videos playing over and over again. And then he told me about how wonderful life is outside of Mzansi; yet he was on a plane ‘home’. “But can you bring children up in this country?” Fuck off then! Go live in Athens and bring your children up speaking Greek if that is so wonderful.
Putting on the iPod presents a slight problem in that you are not able to hear airport announcements when gates change and you run the risk of being left in New York, London or Amsterdam. So I usually compromise these days, leaving one earphone on and the other exposed to the dangers of the crime obsessives and airport announcers.

Crime scene 1
I was recently at Heathrow employing this one ear on one ear off tactic, Iron and Wine in one ear massaging me back to South Africa. I was sitting opposite a woman who looked like a typical ‘gymkwaai’: one of those South African ladies of leisure who divide the hours before the final school bell between virgin active and kaui and think that things like wheatgrass are basic food groups. I heard the ‘c’ word being coaxed from her mouth, gently but confidently, like an ice-skater gliding on one leg. I tried to focus on my book. But then something slightly out of the ordinary seemed to be being discussed. The woman in question was explaining to a middle-aged, moustached, boep owner of a man that she was fed up with the crime in London and was returning home. She had been mugged three times in London and had had enough. Halleleuya! The boeped man looked like he had just heard that Castle lager production was going to stop or that Hansie Cronje was still alive. I imagine that for people like him the knowledge that there is a ‘safer place’, where South Africans can go and not be oppressed by…other South Africans, offers immense solace.

Crime scene 2
I also recently went to Brazil. Two friends of mine, who will remain unnamed, convinced me that Rio was ‘commercial and touristy’ and that Salvador was the place to experience something different, something African. Capoeira, samba and all things good. Sugar and spice and all things nice. After two nights in Sao Paulo I flew to Salvador, where somebody from the hostel I was staying at, Galeria Trese (Gallery 13) picked myself and a Swede up from the airport and dispatched us to our lodgings. I had a quick shower, using the strawberry bodywash that was in the bathroom- impressing me no end with Brazilian hospitality (I later found out that the bodywash belonged to an Aussie traveller, dispelling some of my hard fought prejudice about Australian men being an uncouth breed who only talk about the length of their peckers and how gay they are not). I woke up at 5am to hear the Swede engaged in a fat banter with a man who had climbed onto the burglar bars. God I wanted to sleep. I closed my eyes. A few minutes later I heard the Swede saying “I don’t have any Euros”. I looked a little closer and it looked like the man was holding a hanky with a pointy object underneath it. He was pointing it at the Swede, threatening to turn him into a meatball. Next thing the Aussies were on their feet. Like young sheep trying to find their recently sheared fleeces. One offered the man his white takkies. He looked mildly impressed. Then they were opening lockers and dispensing with some of the hard tack. I lay on my bed. The gentleman in the window then said something interesting. He belted out ‘I have AIDS’, for all of Salvador to hear. What the fuck? The anthropologists would have had a major semi-on by this stage. Here I am, abroad, escaping the crime country of the world and we have a man threatening us through the burglar bars with ‘AIDS’. Unless he had a 10 foot long shlong, I think we were all safe from at least the virus. What was he trying to achieve with this comment? Anyways, I was robbed twice more in Brazil (I eventually did buy a ticket to Rio and was robbed at gun point on Copacabana beach, in broad daylight, for all to see), before returning to the safety of good old SA.

So there are a couple of hefty conclusions from all this:
1. Don’t talk to South Africans at airports outside of South Africa. It’s not safe. Smile, be polite and keep to yourself. If somebody wants to talk about crime tell them you’re not interested and they should stay away from South Africa and your children. The best option is to tell them to go directly to Perth or read Kevin Bloom’s book, Ways of Staying, for a full set of options and a somewhat arrogant starting premise.

2. Crime happens outside of South Africa. There is something called a ‘Gini coefficient’, which is a statistic that measures the difference between the richest and poorest 20% of a country’s population. Countries with a high Gini coefficient generally have high crime rates. See a list of countries with the highest Gini coeffients and highest crime rates. They correlate pretty nicely.

3. Some Australians use strawberry scented bodywash and do not only talk about the size of their peckers and how gay they are not. They also do not go to watch that other form of football or point the pointy sponge finger. They do, however, support Tottenham, but I think on this occasion they can be forgiven for not knowing any better.