Rare Vertebrate: The Time I Got Kicked Out of South African Parliament

Tuesday brought the first real excitement of my work week. I can now fairly claim that I got, if not quite kicked, escorted right out of Parliament. You see, my friend Saranne works at a NGO called Idasa—a democracy watchdog group for the incipient free governments in South Africa and across the continent. Her work entails reading about and sometimes attending parliamentary hearings (along with other governmental and political happenings, like the debate I went to later that day, and the annual French Embassy party I attended as the most under-dressed guy there). By going into work with her this morning, I was given the opportunity to empty my pockets of all belongings and pass through a metal detector (twice), and take a seat at a Parliament Budget Committee hearing. The room was a classy mixture of stately woodwork and technological sophistication that one would expect. The delegates on the committee were introduced, and I sat in long enough to hear an Indian-South African man discuss the economic situation of the country, in relation to the president’s recent State of the Nation address. He was factual and objective in dealing with the realities of the countries imports, exports, labor market, and infrastructure. I truly was interested, though I felt my saturation point nearing as they started handing out the complimentary water bottles to all in attendance. I took my souvenir and walked the wrong way out of the building.

There is a good rule of thumb in South African cities (maybe in any big city): don’t go where there are no other people around. This is exactly what I did though, at the innocent hour of 10 in the morning. I headed up the Parliament street towards an incredible vantage point of the mountain, a beautiful old, stone catholic church (the oldest!) and a regal, but heavily gated, palatial estate. In all honesty, I couldn’t even get a decent look at the palace from 50 yards from the first round of fence, so I focused my camera clicks on the church and sky and mountain. After a few shots, I was semi-startled by the approach of a white, middle aged, serious looking policeman. He asked what I was doing in the same way cops ask do you know how fast you were going back there. I told him I had been to parliament, and wanted to snap some photos before being on my way. He unwarmly informed me that “we’d” rather you not snap photos up here, and asked to see my pass (given on passage through security). I was grateful to my cooperative pockets as I was able to present it quickly. My enthusiastic obedience did not thaw this cop’s steel, though—his finger whipped towards what seemed the very quickest way out off Parliament street and “asked” me to leave. I countered his non-query with my own—“I was actually hoping to go this way?” So I walked, and he walked, down the Parliament road towards the city below. I managed to shake him after a block or so (ok, he was the one that turned off), and continued my graceful exit, stopping to snap just a few more shots of some less significant buildings.