Stuck in an unfamiliar city at midnight, I accepted a lift from a stranger

It’s only after I’ve arrived at my destination that I realise I’ve broken two of life’s cardinal rules: never accept lollies or lifts from strangers.

I have my excuses. I’ve missed dinner, and though I consider myself streetwise (I’m from Johannesburg, after all) the prospect of arriving in an unfamiliar city fills me with unease. So I don’t hesitate when the woman seated beside me holds out a handful of treats.

Credit: Jamie Brown

“Would you like some fudge?” she says.

I snatch the Fudgentas from her palm and dig around in my bag for a reciprocal offering: two Ferrero Rochers. This communal exchange reminds me I’m home. But so does my motherland’s laissez-faire approach to punctuality: we’re running three hours late.

The bus left Cape Town early this morning and will trace the coast all the way to Durban on a 24-hour sojourn. I boarded at George, along the southern Cape’s Garden Route, and had expected to disembark at Port Elizabeth (Gqerbha) in the early evening. It will be nearing midnight by the time I get there.

Nightfall has expunged the scenery. The moon rises sharp as a lightbulb above the mountains. Beaches and farmland slip by unseen. Will I find a taxi or Uber to transport me to my hotel when I arrive late at night in a deserted city? Street wisdom is no indemnity against the c-word: crime. I’d posed this question to a woman at the bus stop in George; she’s also headed to Port Elizabeth and is familiar with the city.

“Maybe,” she’d said.

There’s nought to do but wait and see. The bus slows for traffic, pauses to unload and reload passengers, treads with caution (mercifully) along the shrouded, squiggling road. From the upper deck I observe family reunions and farewells on the pavements below. They’re like scenes from Love, Actually, with bus stops in place of arrival and departure halls.

At Jeffreys Bay, the lolly-sharer takes her leave. Night engulfs the beach where Australian surfer Mick Fanning fought off a shark during the J-Bay Open in 2015; no glimmer of moonlight marks that hallowed spot. I’m imagining sharks of a different kind – those who fleece solo travellers in empty cities in the dead of night. But it’s the woman from the bus stop in George who’s circling now. She finds me at the back of the bus and asks where I’m staying tonight.

“I might be able to give you a lift there,” she says, before returning to her seat for the next leg of the journey. I unwrap my Fudgentas. They’re delicious – and they don’t kill me. Is this a good omen? On the outskirts of Port Elizabeth the bus halts so that long-haul passengers can stretch their legs. The woman from the bus stop waves to me.

“Let’s go!” she says.

If you must accept a lift from a stranger, snap a photo of the number plate and send it to a friend.Credit: iStock

Her boyfriend is waiting outside. He’s built like a rugby player and stands a head or two above me. What to do? I snap a surreptitious photo of his number plate, text it to a friend, and jump into his car. The night is fathomless as we forge onwards.

From my backseat perch I consider the Samaritans’ perspective: are they hoping I’m not an axe murderer, too? But conversation flows and soon the city’s esplanade comes into view. On one side is the roiling, inky ocean, on the other the shadowy bus depot – not a taxi in sight.

We pull up to my hotel. The boyfriend unloads my luggage, refuses my offer of petrol money, and waits until I’m securely indoors before re-starting his car. As I fall asleep, the c-words whirl about me: comradeship, care, community - life’s other cardinal rules.