Walking in the shadow of death in gangland

I walked the road of death in the dead of night. So did my colleagues - photographers Halden Krog and Anton Scholtz.

Only a week before I had been to Renoster Road with a heavy police contingent.

Then I felt safe from the gangsters who had terrorised Manenberg for weeks.

This time I felt vulnerable.

Before we left The Times office we wanted to wear bullet-proof vests but then, we figured, it would make us conspicuous. Now that I think about it, it's impossible for a black man with a notepad, and two white guys with cameras, to be inconspicuous.

When we pulled up in Renoster Road we could feel the gaze of seen and unseen eyes. Luckily we were greeted by smiles and warm gestures from a group of Rastafarians who had gathered around a bonfire.

Then Joe appeared.

"Come, come into my house," he said. "Come see how I live."

I said a short prayer as we followed him into a dark meandering tunnel between council flats and shacks to his tiny two-roomed home. I was appalled.

The walls were nothing more than thin concrete. We squeezed past pieces of furniture strewn everywhere - a loud couch, a fruit rack, a fridge. His dimly lit bedroom had a bunk bed and a computer. He boasted about his collection of gangster documentaries.

When I turned around there were about five faces peering at us from the darkness. We were subjected to dozens of photographs of him in prison. Time was running out and we had to leave. But first we had to greet his pitbull terrier.

I can't remember the dog's name but I won't forget his face.

Then it was back to the streets where we had a hard time convincing many drunken residents that we were not policemen spying on them. Some were outright rude and demanded that we put away our equipment. Others insisted on money for taking their picture.

A number of people opened up about their plight. But something caught my attention - the children and the babies cuddled by their mothers in the cold.

They seemed oblivious to the dangerous surroundings and the killings. Some children dodged moving cars as a game. Parents seemed to be unconcerned.

I noticed a man balancing on crutches. It turns out he was shot three weeks ago when he was caught in gang shoot-out crossfire.

The odd police van that drove past brought some comfort. The cops - like us - were outsiders and we would have something to run towards if someone snapped.

As we spoke to the injured man, someone emerged from nowhere. He spoke Afrikaans and his tone was stern. I could only make out that I was not welcome and that the injured man had no business telling me his story.

Then another man arrived, whipped out his phone and turned the tables on us.

Without saying a word he snapped pictures of us working and then took down our car's registration number.

The mood suddenly turned tense - it was time for us to leave, abruptly ending our night out in Manenberg.