A night at the precinct
RSA July 1984
After about a week in Jo’burg I felt alright and ready to continue. It was difficult to find a spot to hitchhike, the highways leading out of town were dangerous.
There was a small bus station across the road. The buses leaving from there were for blacks, but I figured it didn’t matter. In the centre of Jo’burg, seggregation breaks down anyway during the rushhour. I waited in the door of one of the buses while the driver was chatting to a woman, both waiting for their departure time. There were no other passengers yet.
A grey car that had slowly been driving up the road stopped and a white bloke got out.
“Police,” he said, flashing his badge: “come with me.”
I followed him to the car where his colleague was waiting.
“Are you tired of living?!” he cried: “Do you have a deathwish? This is a black area!”
They asked me where I was going and I wondered how they might react to hitchhikers. I did not fancy a night in the cells, nor did I want to pay for an expensive train ticket.
“I am on my way to Capetown,” I said: “and I’m a little lost. Do you know the way to the exit for Capetown?
“We’ll drive you.”
At least they did not prosecute hitchikers — just, it seemed, about everyone else. But I would spend that night at a policestation anyway.
I caught a series of lifts and in Klerksdorp a man stopped his van just as I had decided to have a little rest. “I’m trying to make Capetown today,” he said: “If you want to come, jump in.”
Capetown was still hundreds of kilometres away.
On our long drive south we were stopped at three police barriers.
“What are they looking for?”
“Weapons. Any car with a black driver is searched.”
Typical Apartheid nonsense; the ANC had enough white members to take care of the distribution of arms. Thankfully the system was withering under the weight of its own stupidity. Our pick-up was waved through without incident. For all I knew my friend had a load of Kalashnikovs in the back.
We drove into the night, mountains loomed as shadows in the distance. Occassional outbursts of rain almost obscured the road. At three in the morning we came to a small town and as I could not drive, the man said he was forced to stay in a hotel, he could not go on. He drove me to the local police station where he was sure that I would find shelter. Great. A night in the slammer. But why not?
There were two doors to the police station, one for ‘Whites Only’ and one for ‘Blacks Only’. They led into a single room with a single counter. The cops, bored with night duty in the sleepy little town, were pleased to see me and marvelled at my passports with its many stamps. The chief was excited because he had made a scoop earlier that evening.
“Have you ever smoked marijuana?”
“Never!” I lied.
The chief waved me closer and showed a tiny newspaper wrapper to the other officers and me. It contained a little grass with plenty of stalks and seeds, some low-grade homegrown.
“Marijuana has a very peculiar smell,” he lectured and proceeded to roll a joint which he lit and puffed on briefly until the light had caught: “Don’t worry, it isn’t dangerous if you don’t inhale!”
He was the first cop in uniform I have ever seen light a joint. Now he held the thing away from him as if it was a poisonous snake about to strike and allowed everyone a quick whiff.
“Once you smell this, ” he continued: “You’ll never forget it!”
He passed the thing to me.
“Disgusting!” I said. It smelt like burnt newspaper.
The chief tossed his joint and a few more of the tiny wrappers into the fire. The flames hissed and crackled as the many hemp seeds popped.
Denni