In Apartheid South Africa, there were so-called homelands, with Transkei (Nelson Mandela was born in Mvezo, a village in the Transkei region) being one of them. In the early 1990s, I was a reporter on the regional Eastern Cape newspaper, the Daily Dispatch – which was also circulated in Transkei – and one of my more bizarre experiences happened at an abandoned resort on the Transkei coast.
Accompanied by a photographer from the newspaper, let’s call him Wayne, we travelled into the bush. Roads were rugged, the terrain wild with rural mud and straw homesteads sprinkled throughout. And there were goats in the trees. To see several goats standing on a branch is an experience in itself.
We arrived at the deserted resort on the coast and Wayne, for some reason, remained in the ute while I walked around looking for somebody to talk to about what had happened. I found an elderly local woman scrubbing a blood soaked rug with a broom and cake of soap. She told me a crowd of locals had marched on the resort, and the holidaymakers had fled. The marchers had slaughtered a goat on the carpet and much to her disgust she was the one who had to clean it up.
She also told me that Transkei police were in one of the chalets higher up. Rob trailed me in the ute as a made my way up to the top chalet (I didn’t tell him where I was going), where I found four policeman sitting around a table playing Monopoly – with bullets – smoking and drinking Fanta.
That’s not all, as they looked up in surprise, I was a lot less than delighted to see that they were carrying 9mm pistols, automatic assault rifles, light machine guns and their bodies were draped with bandoliers of bullets. They were by and large in civilian clothes, with some smatterings of uniform.
After we all got over the initial shock, they confirmed that they were police assigned to guard the resort (needless to say I was relieved).
After teasing me about the look of shock and horror on my face when I walked into the chalet, they agreed to show me around while they told me what happened. Everybody stood up, grabbed their guns, bullets and cigarettes and followed me out. To this day, I wonder if Wayne peed himself when he saw me emerge with four heavily armed men – no recognisable uniform – walking behind me.
Wayne hit the accelerater on the ute, executed a 180 turn and left me standing there.
I dropped my notebook and ran after the car, shouting and waving. Seeing that I escaped, Wayne slowed down, leaned over and opened the passenger door and screamed for me to jump in (I’ll exclude the expletives). I had to yell that the men were police and it was safe.
When I turned around to go back up the hill, with Wayne sheepishly trailing me, I saw all four policemen were literally in hysterics. There’s an expression about people rolling around on the ground with laughter. Well, it’s true, I’ve seen it.
Essentially a bunch of locals were tired of seeing a stream of guests living the high life in their backyard and had decided to do something about it. As a news story, it was fairly innocuous.
The Lesson
Bit of a long bow I’ll admit, but…
Facing the prospect of being sold to can feel, for some people, much like a group of armed men descending on them.
The moment a conversation starts to feel like a hard sell, people mentally slam the door or make a swift retreat. Once they’ve fled (whether from the room, the call, or the website) winning them back is an uphill battle.
First impressions matter, and perceived threat, even if it’s only the threat of being sold to, can shut down engagement.
The lesson?
Avoid the ambush. Create space, set a welcoming tone, and build trust before presenting your offer.
Make the next step feel safe, natural, and entirely their choice.