“Picking up the Pieces”
The Aftermath of a Robbery - Cape Town, South Africa
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The Aftermath of a Robbery - Cape Town, South Africa
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Picking up the pieces after a robbery is no laughing matter. Stripped of your pride and left extremely vulnerable, regaining composure, not to mention ID’s and cash, takes hard work, diligence and a lot of patience (especially in Africa).
Robbed in Bloemfontein, a non-touristic city in the central part of South Africa, my plans to travel overland to Cape Town along the beautiful southern coast were thwarted. I needed a passport and I needed money stat! For that I needed Cape Town.
Catching a one-way bus from the scene of the crime to Cape Twon, I arrived with a small stash of money and a huge to do list.
Wondering through the streets on my way to Cape Town’s backpacker famous, “Long Street”, I was speechless. Tall skyscrapers, trendy café’s, and business men and women streaming past balanced with street vendors hawking sun glasses, corner side stands selling their local fares and crazed mini buses barreling down the street. It was the poshest, most civilized Africa had ever looked!
Turning onto Long Street, so many “westerners”, pulsed up and down the energized street. I felt like a deer in the headlights after months of Sub-Saharan travel. I needed a shower, a coffee and a moment to unwind.
Robbed in Bloemfontein, a non-touristic city in the central part of South Africa, my plans to travel overland to Cape Town along the beautiful southern coast were thwarted. I needed a passport and I needed money stat! For that I needed Cape Town.
Catching a one-way bus from the scene of the crime to Cape Twon, I arrived with a small stash of money and a huge to do list.
Wondering through the streets on my way to Cape Town’s backpacker famous, “Long Street”, I was speechless. Tall skyscrapers, trendy café’s, and business men and women streaming past balanced with street vendors hawking sun glasses, corner side stands selling their local fares and crazed mini buses barreling down the street. It was the poshest, most civilized Africa had ever looked!
Turning onto Long Street, so many “westerners”, pulsed up and down the energized street. I felt like a deer in the headlights after months of Sub-Saharan travel. I needed a shower, a coffee and a moment to unwind.
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In typical Reggie fashion, I had not the slightest clue where to stay. Trekking up and down the street a few times, I finally settled on the cheapest option, Two Oceans Backpackers. Dropping my bag in the hot, stuffy dormitory I downed a coffee (complimentary of the hostel), took a deep breath and went to work on a Western Union wire.
A few days prior, my father had transferred funds from the US to SA Western Union. He was reassured by the stateside Western Union employees that I would not need to show an ID to obtain funds, simply show a copy of my old passport and share the password my Dad had provided them. Explaining my situation to the South African Western Union attendant, I proudly presented my passport copy with password on the tip of my tongue - I could practically feel those crisp South African Rand in my sweaty hand. |
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The hair-weaved, buck something woman behind the counter did everything she could not to laugh at my request. “Honey, this is South Africa. We have so much crime a password will get you nothing!” “But…,” I stuttered. “They said it would work”. “Well “they” don’t live in South Africa! Get your new passport from the embassy and then you can withdrawal funds.” Easy for her to say. It was Saturday morning and the embassy wouldn’t open until Monday.
Defeated, I returned to Two Oceans and spent my first few days in Cape Town exploring free places and activities while getting to know the crazy bunch of people staying at the backpackers – a flaming gay 60-something Scottish man, a 40-something South African bar maid (sleeping naked every night right next to my dorm bed) and a bunch of young, budget backpackers like myself trying to live on a dime.
Monday rolled around and I was off to the US embassy. Getting there, however, proved a bit tricky. Taking the Metrorail, their above ground public train system, followed by a mini bus wasn’t the easiest proposition. I thought embassies were supposed to be centralized?
Passport photos in hand, I checked into the embassy. Clearing security with ease, I walked through the double doors marked, U.S. Embassy, with an overwhelming sense of reassurance. Let this nightmare be over, I thought.
Defeated, I returned to Two Oceans and spent my first few days in Cape Town exploring free places and activities while getting to know the crazy bunch of people staying at the backpackers – a flaming gay 60-something Scottish man, a 40-something South African bar maid (sleeping naked every night right next to my dorm bed) and a bunch of young, budget backpackers like myself trying to live on a dime.
Monday rolled around and I was off to the US embassy. Getting there, however, proved a bit tricky. Taking the Metrorail, their above ground public train system, followed by a mini bus wasn’t the easiest proposition. I thought embassies were supposed to be centralized?
Passport photos in hand, I checked into the embassy. Clearing security with ease, I walked through the double doors marked, U.S. Embassy, with an overwhelming sense of reassurance. Let this nightmare be over, I thought.
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Grabbing a numbered ticket, I waited amongst other eager clients. “Number 42”. Springing from my chair, I greeted the lady behind the thick glass warmly. “My name is Regina Busse and I had my passport stolen”…blah…blah…blah…a broken record I’m sure she heard a million times. But what peaked her real interest was my name. “Oh, Miss Busse”, she sung. “We’ve been waiting for you.” “Waiting for me”, I croaked. Had I done something wrong? “Your dad has called many times to inform us of your situation. Glad you made it. Let’s begin”.
Just hearing the lady refer to my Dad, Mr. Jim Busse, made my heart swell. A parents love truly knows no end. A few hours later, I departed with a glistening new Americano passport in hand. Valid for only 30-days, she reminded me, but all I needed was 7 days validation so I could board my plane home. |
Walking on a cloud after such an enjoyable embassy session, I strapped the new passport to my person and embarked on the long public transport journey back to Long Street…and my favorite Western Union lady. I couldn’t wait to show her my passport and prove that I was, who I said I was. “Madam, I cannot give you the money because you do not have a South African Visa Stamp!” My smug grin turned to a sour grimace. “What? How can I have a stamp in a brand new passport? I told you my other one was stolen in your country!!” She continued to dispute the point until I conceded.
At this point, my wee funds were depleting with every round of public transport, hostel nights stay, rushed passport payment and small meal along the way. How could I wait another day for the South African embassy to open? Guess it’s rice for dinner.
At this point, my wee funds were depleting with every round of public transport, hostel nights stay, rushed passport payment and small meal along the way. How could I wait another day for the South African embassy to open? Guess it’s rice for dinner.
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After a fitful nights rest, I made it to the South African embassy just an hour after opening. Like the US Embassy, I hoped and prayed it would be a smooth process but the buzz of noise coming from within the building, told me otherwise.
Over one hundred people “lined up” (more like bunched up) in 4 different queues. No sign to denote which line you should wait in only a lonely security guard half asleep in the corner. Disturbing him from slumber I asked which line for Visa Stamps. He pointed at the first. “Great”, I thought, “On my way”. Waiting in line for over an hour, it was finally my turn. “Hello, my passport was stolen and I need to obtain a new SA Visa Stamp,” I proclaimed. The lady rolled her eyes and told me I was in the wrong line. I had to grab a number and wait for a different teller. I implored, “Mam, I simply need a stamp.” Slightly annoyed, she pointed across the busy room to an even busier waiting room and next to it, one of those bloody number machines. Snatching the next set of digits, I waited for over 2 hours. “Bing”…Number 784 flashed on the small TV monitor. Leaping towards the appropriate desk, I thought surely the stamp was mine. |
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“Madam, I can’t help you with this”. You must go upstairs and speak with a “case worker”. I could have cried. A case worker? And how do I know they can help? Another bored expression and the assurance she couldn’t help.
Huffing away, I followed her directions to climb the unmarked stairwell to the top floor. One small desk, a few chairs and two anxious people decorated the grim space. I asked them how to get assistance and they said we all must wait for the receptionist. What’s the bloody good of a receptionist, if they’re not around to greet the exact clients their supposed to help? Far too rational a thought for them, I kept my frustrations to myself.
Soft chatter wafted out of a few closed doors while heated arguments boomed from others. Finally, a woman emerged from one of the small offices and took my details. Please wait here.
An hour later, a case worker called out “Regina Busse”. My anticipation was palpable and I could hardly reach her office quick enough. Relaying my story, the case worker was surprisingly understanding and sympathetic. She entered my claim into the computer and found I was “legal” to be in SA but said she couldn’t provide a stamp. I would have to submit a more formal claim elsewhere. I lost it!
Tears streamed down the side of my tired eyes aand I begged her to help. “Madam, I have no money! I can’t travel across town again until I withdrawal money from Western Union…and I can’t do that until I have a stamp…Please!” Feeling my sorrow, she offered another solution. “I will write you a certified letter to say you are legal to be in SA. The Western Union should recognize it. If not, you call me direct”. Typing out the letter, she printed a crisp white document and sealed it with the golden stamp. I couldn’t thank her enough but the pictures of her 4 children hung around the room, made me think she would want the same kindness granted to her children in need.
Back to Western Union, with passport, certified letter and slightly blood shot eyes. The same lady sat behind that same lonely desk. Reviewing the letter she started to say, “Madam, you need…” and I stopped her outright. Reliving the past 3 day escapade and telling her if this letter wasn’t good, the lead case worker at the South African embassy would be on her like white on rice”, was all it took. Conceding to the cause, her once guarded demeanor lightened and she became extremely helpful. 4 days after starting the debacle, I tucked a large sum of fresh South African into my purse and walked away from Western Union triumphant.
Huffing away, I followed her directions to climb the unmarked stairwell to the top floor. One small desk, a few chairs and two anxious people decorated the grim space. I asked them how to get assistance and they said we all must wait for the receptionist. What’s the bloody good of a receptionist, if they’re not around to greet the exact clients their supposed to help? Far too rational a thought for them, I kept my frustrations to myself.
Soft chatter wafted out of a few closed doors while heated arguments boomed from others. Finally, a woman emerged from one of the small offices and took my details. Please wait here.
An hour later, a case worker called out “Regina Busse”. My anticipation was palpable and I could hardly reach her office quick enough. Relaying my story, the case worker was surprisingly understanding and sympathetic. She entered my claim into the computer and found I was “legal” to be in SA but said she couldn’t provide a stamp. I would have to submit a more formal claim elsewhere. I lost it!
Tears streamed down the side of my tired eyes aand I begged her to help. “Madam, I have no money! I can’t travel across town again until I withdrawal money from Western Union…and I can’t do that until I have a stamp…Please!” Feeling my sorrow, she offered another solution. “I will write you a certified letter to say you are legal to be in SA. The Western Union should recognize it. If not, you call me direct”. Typing out the letter, she printed a crisp white document and sealed it with the golden stamp. I couldn’t thank her enough but the pictures of her 4 children hung around the room, made me think she would want the same kindness granted to her children in need.
Back to Western Union, with passport, certified letter and slightly blood shot eyes. The same lady sat behind that same lonely desk. Reviewing the letter she started to say, “Madam, you need…” and I stopped her outright. Reliving the past 3 day escapade and telling her if this letter wasn’t good, the lead case worker at the South African embassy would be on her like white on rice”, was all it took. Conceding to the cause, her once guarded demeanor lightened and she became extremely helpful. 4 days after starting the debacle, I tucked a large sum of fresh South African into my purse and walked away from Western Union triumphant.
