How I conquered Africa - currently incomplete

During the course of a recent trip to South Africa, I decided on an
impulse one morning to visit the African market in central Johannesburg
for the first time. I was hoping to experience Africa first hand,
without the babble of tour guides or the endless banalities of my
fellow European travellers.

The tour package had been a terrible and expensive mistake, and I
needed to experience something real before the entire holiday was
irreparably ruined.

I was excited about the prospect of discovering an exotic array of
curios on display, something uniquely African, although I had been
warned (by the porter at my hotel) not to stray from the immediate
vicinity of the market, under any inducement. There is a very real
danger of being attacked and robbed, particularly for those who look
like outsiders. Spontaneous violence can erupt seemingly without
provocation in this beautiful yet troubled metropolis. For these
reasons, my buoyancy was counterpoised by dull dread.

The cauterising heat as I alighted from my air-conditioned hire car was
beyond comprehension. My centre of gravity seemed to shift as I
squirmed away the tentative rivulets of perspiration already forming
between my shoulder blades. I made my way through the group of beggars,
drunkards and parking attendants at the market perimeter, uncomfortably
conscious of their indifferent looks of appraisal. Perhaps bringing the
camera had been a mistake. Meanwhile the sun above was molten, aerial
furnace in a painfully blue sky bereft of cloud or even moisture.

Ignoring the heat and disdainful stares as best I could, I headed in
the general direction of the area which I judged to be the hub of
activity.

I was no more than ten feet into the market itself when the crowd
became denser, unyielding. I laboured against the obstructive
multitudes towards the vivid reds, greens and yellows of the market
wares. Everywhere about me were scattered rickety tables languishing
under the weight of brightly beaded mats, jewellery, herbs, dried
meats, animal skins, pottery and caged birds of every description.
Everything was scattered about in swirling, random chaos. The air hung
heavy and troubled, warm and dust-laden. The pungency of human sweat
was inextricably laced with the heady sweetness of marijuana.

Without warning my right arm was clutched violently in a tenacious
grasp. I spun around to see a scarred hawker, wearing dehydrated
tongues on a string around his neck. He held me unflinchinchly as he
whispered some guttural incantation into my ear.

I shuddered in spite of the heat at the stench of his bitter, unearthly
breath. He was about to continue his verbal entreaty when I surged to
the rear of him and hastily continued into the core of the crowd,
without hesitation, not daring to look back. My skin prickled where he
had held it, and I began to feel very light-headed. Had he cursed me? I
was a long way from home, and knew that many of the people around me
were not conversant in English, which left me feeling mildly nauseous.
Misunderstandings in this environment were possible, even likely, and
could have severe implications for an outsider. I had not forgotten the
hotel porter"s omenous warning pertaining to outsiders.

I realised that I was now standing almost directly in the centre of the
market. To my left and ahead of me were lithe, glistening tribal
dancers, whilst browsers and hawkers swarmed about the random wares to
the rear and sides of me.

In the midst of this heated African kaleidoscope, I became aware that I
was too distraught to be capable of finding a memorable artefact to
return home with. I had become steadily drained since my tentative
entrance into the market less than an hour ago. Instead of continuing
my search I lurched awkwardly towards the market perimeter with
uncertain limbs, heading towards the relative safety of my hire
vehicle. Every person in my path posed a potential threat. My breath
was shallow, my skin clammy and pale. For the first time I became
aware, truly aware, of how different my world is and probably always
will be.

As I hurriedly skirted around the perimeter in search of the parking
lot, there was a flurry of shrill voices and a group of African men,
led by the scarred hawker, stepped out of the perimeter and into the
path some twenty feet ahead of me.

Five minutes later, as I drove off, I thought that perhaps later, I
might drink a single malt whiskey on the rocks in the air-conditioned
bar of my hotel, whilst marvelling at my miraculous escape from certain
death.

Perhaps I could recount to anybody who would listen the vast and
dangerous beauty of Africa, whilst secretly anticipating my impending
return to the comfortable territory of a small English town. I longed
for the safety of a dog-eared Joseph Conrad novel, my garden
hammock&;#8230;.

I intended to direct any future African conquests from this vantage
point.