While in downtown Johannesburg to photograph the thousands of Zimbabwean refugees who seek shelter at the Central Methodist Church, I encountered an obstacle.  My pen refused to write.  It just so happened that the journalist with me had the same problem.   The journalist’s idea was to gauge the feelings of those who had fled Mugabe’s regime about the new government of national unity.  All were skinny, a one year old baby looked pretty malnourished, and a group of men were eating food they said they had scavenged from a garbage dump.  Their stories of getting across the Limpopo were pretty desperate, especially the women’s.  Some say that their ‘guides’ sometimes threw infants into the crocodile-infested river; others are raped; all are robbed.  Brutality without point.

I asked the thronged refugees where to get a pen and they directed me across the road.  The pharmacy did not have any, but they said the shop next door would have.  That shop was one of the ubiquitous Pakistani-run shops that sell almost anything you might never need.  Somehow they make a good living out of it and usually struggle on and develop bigger and better businesses, becoming wealthy.  This willingness to persevere and live rough – often sharing beds in shifts with other Pakistani immigrants – sees them targeted by South Africans, jealous of their success.  The refrain has usually been that they steal our wives and jobs.  Or that they exploit us, charging too much, selling inferior goods, underpaying their local staff, whatever.  In fact there are a surfeit of South African jokes about “Indians”, let me share one.

There is a car accident involving two vehicles on a South African road. Both drivers and a passenger are killed. At the pearly gates the three men line up to see St Peter. He asks for their names and slowly runs his finger along the day’s ordained entrants. “Hmm, Dumisani Mhlongo, you say? No cannot see you. I am sorry, there has been a mistake. We will send you back to Earth, and to make up for the convenience, you may have anything you want.” “Anything?” exclaims Dumisani. “Yes,” afirms St Peter. “Well, I’ll have a Golf GTi, a house, and lots of money in the bank.”  The next accident victim is Mothata Mahape. Again, St Peter cannot find his name in The Book, and makes the same offer, with apologies.  Mothata chooses a BMW M series, a double story house, a beautiful young wife and, of course, a fantastic bank balance.  The third accident victim is Vrish Patel. His name is, too, not in The Book.  St Peter looks up at him and asks in a world-weary way: “Well, and what would you like?” “Not much, Sir, just give me a briefcase full of cheap watches and jewelery.”  “That’s it?” asks the dumbfounded St Peter.  “Yes sir, just give me that and I will soon have their things.”

We’re a prejudiced lot, us South Africans, and so I was already expecting to be overcharged before I asked the Pakistani man behind the counter how much for the two cheap ballpoints I had selected.  He gave me the up-and-down, noting the expensive camera and said “Oh, eight Rands.”  The pair was worth about one Rand, but I had no time or inclination to haggle. As I reached for my wallet, my face must have reflected my feelings. “What are you doing?” he asked.  “I am a journalist,” the subjects of my interest in evidence all over the pavement.  “Okay,” he said, and waved me away.  I was puzzled, and dipped into the wallet, “No, its okay,” he repeated, a smile on his face. Finally getting it, I reached over the doodahs and shook his hand, muttering about him being a gentleman.   As I hurried back to the other immigrants, I felt a little choked up – its always the unexpected that gets you.