Trust? How do you spell that?

There is this thing that I have been meaning to write about for quite a while now (this time I mean it!), and since apparently I have completely stopped answering any and all comments (again) that you still keep leaving (thank goodness, since they truly make my day, every day), I must have been heavily thinking (doesn't that just sound like it should say heavily drinking, since it is, after all, my blog?) about something very, very big and heavy.

Sound credible?

I hope so. Because thinking big is all I have right now.

Every single time anywhere outside of South Africa I tell anyone that I live in Johannesburg I either get the 'oh wow, where's the bullet hole/ contours of the bulletproof vest/ the holster' or the 'You are too cool for living in a war zone' look. And while I love being thought of as seriously hardcore (like a ninja, or Toni Morrison) and utterly cool, the reality is quite different.

Don't get me wrong, I am, like, totally cool, if not even a tad rad, but the truth is that South Africa is not a place where one absolutely needs a gun, a handbag-size rocket launcher, or even a bulletproof vest.

Not really. Not even in Downtown Jo'burg.

However, sometimes it is very hard not to be swept up by the general atmosphere of fear and danger that often permeates this country and especially our city of residence. I know, I know that there is a lot of crime in this country and a lot of it is concentrated in our hood of Jozi. Believe me, I've heard and read all about it. It is a favored ice breaker, after all.

But.

There's a lot more to the situation than rape, murder, and other kinds of horrendous terror.

There's also distrust, and fear for fear's sake. And panic and hysteria. Unfortunately.

When there really should be trust, compassion, and togetherness.

(What is this? Is she fokken trying to be all sweet and cuddly? No way! Creepy is all I'm getting.)

All nice colorful rainbow-like. Like that guy Mandela said. I'm now calling him 'that guy' to throw off the scent of stalk that I may have previously been too vocal about, although I now think it is the US government for a change who is after me, since I keep getting all those blog-visits from various USDA departments. (Yes, being sarcastic, very sarcastic. Don't shoot.)

I think the paranoia stayed when the fever left. Let's hope it's not permanent, eh?

But obviously the Hubby doesn't suffer from any sort of paranoia, since today, because we hate feeling unsafe where ever we are and often feel the urge to demonstrate to ourselves how safe and sound (not really mentally, but in all other ways that I or you can think of) we indeed are, and that we just might be completely certifiable (but at least we have no offspring), we picked up a couple of guys in need of a ride (asking for a ride at traffic lights, sometimes with intricate hand signals, is a common practice in SA) to their respective places of work. One to a gas station and one to a shop, in our hood.

"Do you know them," I ask the hubby. "Nope, but that guy is wearing the gas station jacket," he says.

They guys get in. We have our shopping, my handbag, and assorted items (I did say I would drown in filth, if other people didn't clean for me and the maid refuses to clean the car) in the back seat. The guys make like there's only one of them until we remember it and tell them they can shift some of the stuff.

They are really grateful for the ride. They were going to be late for work, because the taxi (the lethal van packed with peeps that in theory functions as 'public transportation') hadn't shown up. Although, I think the one without the jacket would have been eventually able to buy a Merc to get to work just by trading in his gold teeth. But alas, we, the people not looking to trade in a vehicle of any sort, were his only chance of making his shift.

And we're not into gold teeth. Or at least I'm not. You can never tell with the Hubby. The guy has kept his cast from when he was injured in his teen years. And there are those old Norse/ swearing Copenhagener genes... Also, I think he would sell the car for some 'gold' teeth just to help someone out, if I wasn't there to, you know, keep him from being all saintly and neighborly and such.

Sheesh, I'm married to a friendly person.

A taxi-stand kiosk in Orlando, the township of Soweto. You know, Mandela's neck of the woods. 

As far as what she will use the drum for... I have no idea. I don't.

But sometimes, even I have to trust. To make our world livable. To put something out there that is purely good. That will make someone's day, that will make someone's week, or sometimes even someone's year. I don't want to think people want me harm just because they look at me. That is not the kind of world I want to do my wine drinking in. I mean it.

Now go out there and trust. It's pretty easy once you just go ahead and stop being afraid.

Although, I must add: Don't trust anyone who will want to rob, rape, maim, or murder you or anyone else.

Just saying.