Gadling

I picked up one of my least pleasant travel memories about ten years ago in South Africa.

My plan was to leave Johannesburg for Pretoria, nip into the Australian embassy to vote in the federal election and then continue on into Zimbabwe.

It started to go wrong when the guy who was giving me a lift to the train station was scratching around and wasting time. Missed the express and had to take the local train. Less than sixty seconds after pulling out of the station, five guys came in from the next carriage, said a few words to the other passengers, and then I felt myself being ripped up over the back of my seat by my neck and noticed a knife being held to my stomach.

One of those big ones for hunting with the jagged back and the groove in the blade for the blood to spurt out.

While I was trying to work out who knew that I would be on this train and was organised enough to pull such an elaborate prank, my pockets were rifled, my belt undone and shoes taken off in the search for hidden money and then "it's in the bag, take the bag".

So walletless, passportless and bagless, I couldn't think of anything better than to stay on the train and go to the embassy anyway. Trouble with that was, I had to change trains and my ticket was gone too, wasn't it?

Luckily one of the other passengers was good enough to come along and help me find and report to the railway police (who patrol in groups of six with pump-action shotguns). They in turn passed me onto the real police, who made a report and offered to drive me to the social-help office.

Only problem was that the police car wouldn't start. No problem-get the white guy to push. The police wear their bullet-proof vests the whole time there, and I found myself wondering if I didn't deserve one as well, for getting the car started and all. The social help office turned out not to be very helpful, but they did let me use their phone to call the hostel I’d stayed at. The hostel manager said "get in a taxi and come here; we'll pay for it and look after you until you get yourself sorted out". Saved.

The whole thing happened amazingly quickly and it didn't really hit me until I had to explain to my Mum what had happened. I was philosophical about the loss until I found out that the expenses on my visa card were $250 worth of takeaway food and $600 for alcohol. "Need it more than I do" like hell! The money wasn't too bad though, the worst things I lost were a volume of my journal and all my rolls of film to date (almost three months' worth).

I'm not sure what the moral of the story is, but if you can avoid being robbed, then do, because your Mother will still be upset, even if you begin your call with, "Don't be worried, I'm not hurt, but...."

Sorry Mum.

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