Hitching a Ride in Soweto

So you immediately know Johannesburg, consistently rated one of the most dangerous cities in the world, is an entity unto itself when you get to the airport. There, amidst the food stalls and tourist kitsch, is a place where you can drop off your gun--because so many city residents are armed. Presumably you can pick it back up on your return to Joberg. That's some municipal service, I tell ya.

I stayed at one of the only, if not *the* only, backpacker hostel in Soweto. It's really just a house, run by this really enterprising young guy named Lebo, who turned his parents' old house into a hostel, and it's great for getting a feel for the area instead of just trundling around on the day tour.

I had another unfortunate run-in with my sense of direction. I walked to the Hector Peterson museum, which is about 10 minutes from Lebo's. Now since Soweto streets are not often marked, and in fact do not always exist, the directions went something like "So cross this vacant lot, and then there's this footpath--well, not really a footpath, it's like a dirt mound, and you'll walk by that and climb the hill and cross the train tracks." The only way I found the place is that it's housed in an old church, so I could follow the steeple. The museum commemorates the student uprisings that started in 1976 over the introduction of Afrikaans as a language of instruction for black children, and ended up giving the liberation movement its second wind when so many of the leaders were in exile or prison. So I went to that, and then to Mandela's house, and Tutu's house, and I buy some stuff at the craft market and now it's getting on toward dusk, so it's time to head back to Lebo's. Except here's the thing. Vacant lots all kind of look the same, and there are lots of places to cross the railroad tracks. So I am wandering all over Soweto. And people are incredibly kind--they stop to ask if I am lost, and if I need a lift, and I'm all brave and confident like they say you should be, saying, "No, no, I'm fine, thanks." And then I notice that this particular vacant lot has children foraging for scrap metal, which Lebo's does not, so I've hit a slummier area. Another car stops and a man and his wife say, "Are you lost?" Yes, I say, but I'm sure I'll find it. "Are you safe?" they ask. Well, you probably know better than I do, I think, but I nod enthusiastically. They offer a lift, I decline, they drive off. I head back towards the museum.

One of the craft sellers at the museum recognizes me, and asks again if I am lost. Yup, I am, I say, and since I can't remember the name of Lebo's street, which probably doesn't *have* a name, I'm just going to sit there until Lebo comes looking for me. So this guy says, My brother and I will give you a ride. You bought something from me, we are friends now, is no problem. And for a minute I think, there's a chance I could end up in pieces in one of the countless vacant lots in Soweto. But you gotta take chances. So I let him drive me home--which he actually did, because sometimes people are lovely.

One of my favorite sites in Soweto: children flying kites they have made out of sticks and plastic trash bags. Aren't we marvelous creatures?