The 5 am club

—
J.M. Coetzee
The helipad in Cape Town, South Africa, is on the V&A waterfront, a place
where tourists ride the Cape Wheel, yacht racers replenish their supplies for
courage-filled, adrenaline-fueled ocean contests, fishing charters may be
booked and strong morning coffee can be found.
The bubbly brunette with librarian glasses made sure the liability waivers
were signed by the billionaire, the entrepreneur and the artist. She then stood
on a leather sofa, made notes on her checklist and provided her three VIP
clients with the safety briefing that was mandatory before their helicopter
whisked them to Robben Island.
As you know, Robben Island—a barren, not-so-huge, shark-surrounded,
ominous-looking parcel of land sitting not so far from the coast of Cape Town
—is where Nelson Mandela was confined to an enormously tiny prison cell
for eighteen of the twenty-seven years he was imprisoned. Over time, this
great hero of the world was attacked, abused and otherwise mistreated. And
yet, he replied to this bad behavior with olive branches, seeing the good in his
captors and guarding his hope for a democratic nation where all people would
be equals. Speaking about Mahatma Gandhi, Einstein once said, “Generations
to come will scarce believe that such a one as this ever in flesh and blood
walked upon this Earth.” The same could be expressed of Mr. Mandela.
“It’s an absolute pleasure to have you here for your short trip over to the
island,” the woman indicated politely. South Africans are remarkably well-
mannered and thoughtful people.
The billionaire wore a black baseball cap with the phrase “To lead is to be
of use” stitched on the front of it.
“You’ll have to take that off once you step onto the helipad, young man,”
the woman told him with a golden glimmer in her eye.

---

The billionaire beamed. “I think she likes me,” he whispered to his
companions. “Today’s our last day together,” he added matter-of-factly.
After the safety instruction had been delivered, the billionaire, the
entrepreneur and the artist were escorted out of the building and into a paved
holding area where two weather-beaten picnic tables sat. Though it was
sunny, the winds were gusty. The billionaire removed his hat.
“I feel a little anxious,” thought the billionaire. “I’ve never been to
Robben Island. I’ve read a lot about what went on there under the inhumane
and evil system of apartheid, which ranked the treatment of people according
to their color of skin with no consideration for the caliber of their character—
or the quality of their hearts.”
A serious-looking young man wearing a slim raincoat, khaki trousers and
boating shoes emerged from one of the empty maintenance bays and
requested that the billionaire and his students follow him out to the helipad.
An army green helicopter sat at the center of the area with its rotors spinning
impressively. The pilot was at the controls, adjusting dials, knobs and the like.
The young man meticulously made sure that all three clients were
properly situated in the aircraft for a safe and even weight distribution, then
placed a headphone with a microphone onto the billionaire’s head.
“Good morning,” boomed the billionaire enthusiastically to the helicopter
pilot, as the rotors accelerated. The pilot’s face could not be seen beneath his
helmet, aviator sunglasses and face protector. And he refused to say a word.
“Not so friendly,” muttered the billionaire, remaining both somewhat
nervous yet positively excited for this once-in-a-lifetime experience that was
about to unfold.
The helicopter started rising, slowly initially then ascending quickly.
“The trip will take about five minutes. Winds and sea swells are extra
strong today,” was all the pilot spoke. And even this he voiced curtly.
The billionaire, the artist and the entrepreneur remained quiet. Each of
them simply stared at Robben Island, a land mass that seemed more vast—
and even more brutal—as they neared it.
The aircraft landed on a pad surrounded by low trees and, as it did, seven
springboks gracefully vaulted by. Yes, seven springboks! At the same time, it
began to rain. And another double rainbow, like the one that had appeared at
the dolphin swim in Mauritius, extended across the full length of the horizon
that intersected with the Atlantic Ocean.
“All very special,” observed the artist, arm in arm with his wife.

---

“We’ve definitely entered the magic,” replied the billionaire in a
respectful tone that conveyed an enormous appreciation for the opportunity to
experience Robben Island and at the same delivered a sense of sadness for the
valuable lives that had been ruined there.
The pilot lingered in the cockpit, pressing buttons and turning off the
helicopter while his three passengers exited onto the asphalt landing space
and silently took in the scene. From out of nowhere, an old pickup truck with
“KSA” marked on the side raced toward them, leaving voluminous clouds of
dust in its wake.
“You’re not supposed to be here,” shouted the driver, clearly a security
guard, in a thick South African accent once he had reached the helicopter. He
remained in his vehicle.
“Because of the weather, Robben Island has been closed to the public,” he
called forcefully. “The ferries have all stopped running. No vessel can come
to the port area here and no helicopters are allowed to land. You should have
known about this!