Men In Orange
By Jeff Gamble

Americans visiting South Africa for the first time might have a difficult time believing that it’s one of the most stable countries in the continent. The crime is high, unemployment levels are anyone’s guess, and the number of homeless children sniffing glue and running in street gangs is astounding. Police presence is barely noticeable, and there is a general feeling by many that anyone can almost get away with anything. A friend or mine told me the other night, “Jeff, I promise you, you can literally get away with murder here.” And it’s this feeling that scares the people who call this place home.

Despite all this however, South Africa has become a haven for other African’s seeking asylum from their own countries. Constant economic, political, and military strife in other regions has forced many to flee their homes with haste and attempt to make a new life within the friendlier confines here in the south. They come from Zimbabwe. They come from Mozambique. They come from Angola, Cameroon, and the Congo. They come from Zambia, Rwanda, Malawi, Uganda, and Somalia. They come from Liberia, and they come from the Ivory Coast. They come from Senegal. Some are here legally and some are not, but regardless of their situation, very few have found that the road is much smoother. It’s just less treacherous.

Many who come are well educated and highly intelligent, often times speaking four, five, or even six languages. They are accountants, financial analysts, shop keepers, farmers, and lawyers. But much like the hostility projected onto illegal immigrants coming from south of the border into the United States, nobody wants these people around. The notion is that they need to be turned away at the border, before they flood in and corral the remaining jobs. In what seems to be a familiar tone everywhere, South Africans believe that jobs should go to South Africans.

The fact of the matter though, is that there are no jobs to take. Regardless, this doesn’t change the reality that people, especially new immigrants, must feed themselves and put shelter over their heads in order to survive. So it’s out of this necessity that creativity sparks invention.

Sometimes you see them carrying batons, or wearing reflective orange parking vests. They appear more official this way. They get up early and claim a section of the street before someone else can get there. Competition for certain areas can be fierce, so having seniority and an established territory goes a long way. These are the parking assistants; men who flag you down as you search for a parking space on the street, and then direct you into a slot that they indicate they are protecting. “No problem, my friend,” they tell you. “I will watch your car while you are away.”

Some are flamboyant and entertaining, making what they do part work - part performance. They needlessly whistle and direct your car into the available space as though there is no possible way you could ever successfully negotiate the maneuver without them. Others are nonchalant and do very little, partly because they know that you understand what they are there for - partly because in their hearts they know that they are above the work.

These men can be found in every city in South Africa, on every street where there is public parking. They are there day and night. There has never been a time, outside of being in a residential area, when I have not seen or been approached by one. “No problem, my friend. I will watch your car while you are away.” For some drivers, this presence gets quite annoying. There is, after all, no great sense of relief in knowing that these guys are on duty. No doubt, if somebody were to decide to steal something from your car - or just steal the car itself - these guys wouldn’t do much to thwart the offense.

This is not a ploy or conspiracy. These men aren’t stupid. Given the option between letting a crime happen and walking away, or trying to stop the criminal and possibly being injured or killed in the process, they naturally make the smarter choice. Why get in the way? They are not paid by the city to be there, or employed by an agency. They are not working a private lot or property. They have merely found a way to ask people for money without having to beg for it. They watch your car - you tip them for doing it. Nevermind that they don’t do anything that a car alarm won’t do.

There are many drivers who refuse to tip these men, especially during the day. As one guy stated, “What’s the point? This is a safe area and there are plenty of people around. I’ve parked in public space. I haven’t asked for any of their phony security. I just ignore them.”

As foreigners though, I suppose that Mark and I are a little more curious about some aspects of South Africa than are most of the people who live here. Kind of like people coming to America who have never been to a McDonalds before. So we occasionally stop and talk to these parking attendants and ask them random questions. Wary, not all of them engage us. But when they do, one of my staple inquiries is to always ask them where they are from. Last Saturday was a good example.

We were on our way to Camps Bay beach, lazily floating through our weekend, when the man approached the car as we got out. “Bon jour,” he said. “Bon jour,” I said. He paused. “Parle vous Francais?” He seemed expectant. “No,” I replied. “You just heard all of my French.” The man laughed and we shook hands as strangers often do here.

He introduced himself as Francois, but informed us that we could call him Francis. “That is my name translated in English,” he said as a matter of fact. His smile revealed teeth so white, they almost looked fake. He was well dressed under his orange traffic vest, and carried a baton in his right hand that I felt confident he probably would never use. He also carried with him a quiet dignity that he projected without audacity. When I asked him where he was from he indicated that he was originally from Burundi. Sometimes I follow this question up with others, but it was almost three o’clock now - quite late in tanning terms - and I didn’t want to waste any more precious time. Clouds were threatening. I started to make a move by him, but he continued in telling us about himself, thus forcing me to halt out of courtesy. On the inside, my haste had me somewhat impatient, but I tried to appear relaxed and casual.

He told Mark and I that he was forced to flee his home in 1993, when fallout from the ethnic Hutu/Tutsi war in neighboring Rwanda spilled over into his country and forced his family to a refugee camp. He had been working as an accountant up until that point, but most of the country suspended regular operations due to the conflict, and Francois left his job.

“I began trading for blankets,” he told us. “Our camp was in Burundi, but resources were hard found. I traveled with other men four hundred kilometers by foot outside the country to get proper supplies for my family and others. It was on one such trip when we were away that news was brought of a massacre in my camp. All had been killed, including my entire family. I wanted to go back, but the violence was spreading and for me to return would have meant that I too would have been killed.”

As Francois spoke and the three of us stood there on the sidewalk, numerous pedestrians in beach and brunch wear anonymously floated by us from both directions.

“I had nothing. Only the clothes I was wearing. No home, no family, and no place I could go. I began to walk, and I did this with others who also had nothing. Some had been rich and some had been poor, but now we were all the same. Men who owned fancy cars could no longer drive them. There was no petrol. Our country had no remaining resources. Material possessions no longer had any value. So these men burned their cars. They took the remaining fuel from the tank and poured it all over the outside. And then they lighted them on fire - nice BMW’s - so that the rebels could recover nothing from them when they arrived.”

“For five thousand kilometers I walked after that. Through Zaire, through the Congo, Angola. And I went to Zimbabwe and Mozambique. But I found trouble or war in each of these places. Six years I traveled. It is only three months that I am in Cape Town.”

“I was given political asylum here, but now I can find no work. And where I am staying I must soon leave because I was given only three months to be there. It is very difficult. To make rent is expensive, and working here as I do pays very little. Some people won’t pay anything at all. And some days it is difficult to find a territory to patrol because somebody is already here or there. So I must walk until I find a place where no one is there. But walking is no problem for me - HA HA HA!”

Francois seemed quite composed, and so I asked him whether or not he ever became fed up or frustrated with the cards he had been dealt. Going to the beach now was something of an afterthought, and I was actually ashamed of myself for my nonchalant, carefree, tan-driven attitude of a few minutes before. He smiled at my question. “No, my friend,” he said. “You must understand that this is God’s will. None of this has happened by accident. God presents me with obstacles and I must overcome them. I do not always understand, but I must overcome. When I wake up each morning, I know that a new test is waiting for me. And it is up to me to find a way to respond. This is not by chance. Even meeting you here today - it is God’s will. It is not an accident.”

He looked me in the eye and held up his index finger, which he left suspended for a moment. Then he repeated: “Not an accident.”

- March, 1999