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Looting, burglary and violence – we had to escape South Africa

Cape winelands - AP
Cape winelands - AP

South Africa’s past is imperfect, its present tense and with its future conditional, last weekend, we finally had to leave.

Our flight home to the UK from Cape Town was cancelled a month ago after the country’s borders closed to commercial air traffic, and my wife, infant daughter and I found ourselves stranded with no way out.

Despite the country’s strict lockdown, Covid-19 infections and deaths were rising with hospital admissions doubling every five days and threatening to overwhelm health services. Hungry crowds had clashed with riot police, food stores were being looted, and at the last count 1,775 schools had been burgled, vandalised and burned. The situation is expected to become far worse before it gets better.

We were fortunate, having a winter home with a large garden in a tranquil farming village in the Cape winelands, but it was as if we were living in an illusory bubble as a storm gathered strength around us. The instigation of a hard lockdown that banned alcohol and any form of exercise after 9am seemed to be breeding increasing frustration and a sense of endless confinement.

Then, finally, came blissful word that the British High Commission was coming to the rescue with ten repatriation flights from Cape Town and Johannesburg – we were among the first to put our names on the list.

Twitter became our daily must-read for updates and advice from the Commission, which informed us we would be on the first flight home. The dark cloud hovering over our refuge vanished.

Fast forward to 6am on the morning of our departure just a few days ago and we were standing in Cape Town Stadium, a venue of the 2010 FIFA World Cup, where we had been ordered to assemble in pre-dawn darkness for health checks and transport to the airport. A Union Jack wrapped untidily around a pillar was our signpost to escape.

There were more than 300 of us, but it was a smoothly carried out operation with South African health personnel checking temperatures and medical forms, and High Commission staff ushering us into a waiting hall and dispensing food and drink. Here, we found ourselves among some vaguely familiar faces.

“Are you Nigel Casey?” my wife asked a man who helped us with our baggage, recognising His Excellency the High Commissioner from his Twitter feed. Another chap trundling luggage in a smart khaki uniform turned out to be Wing Commander A.J. Green, the Defence Attache.

Nearby, Sir Geoffrey Boycott professed he was happy to up stumps on his South African tour and return to Yorkshire. In the heightened emotions of departure, it made us feel relieved and grateful to be British.

The short bus ride to the airport was eerie. A fiery golden dawn rose over the eastern hills beneath leaden grey skies and we sped along empty highways through a city with no signs of life. There was a sense of furtive escape from a hushed, fearful city that reminded me of my foreign correspondent days, on leaving Beijing in the aftermath of the Tiananmen Square massacre.

We arrived at a silent, empty airport devoid of travellers, where the rows of unused baggage trolleys ranged outside darkened halls like discarded relics of a bygone era. There were no long queues at check-in, security or passport control, and soon we were watching a lone British Airways 747 touchdown and trundle towards our gate. The 7th cavalry had arrived on a wing and a prayer.

Captain John Amos greeted us on board with a brief message: “I’m sure you’ve all had a long and anxious wait to get here, so you’re all very welcome.” His crew were all volunteers that wanted to help, he informed us, revealing that catering under the circumstances would be limited to snacks.

Covid-19 restrictions also ruled out alcoholic drinks to celebrate our deliverance, and social distancing was impossible on a fully booked flight. But we didn’t care, we were just glad to be going home, and arriving back on UK soil has seldom felt so good.