South Africa: Lag

South Africa – Day 2

Jet lag is a bitch. I'm awake but I'm not here. My hands are uncooperative stones, my back a knotted cluster of barbed wire. I drag myself to the shower and brush my teeth with strange water, afraid to taste or swallow. I think about coffee but there's no coffee maker nor coffee in this house. I lumber back to my room to pull on my socks, rubbing at my eyes like a child.

My room is a cozy 11' x 6' rectangle with soft pink walls and a single window dressed with bars that are, themselves, dressed with bars. The two great panes of glass swing open about 10 degrees each – enough to let some air in and still keep a person out. A large wooden bureau dominates about 1/6 of the room. There's a desk with a small lamp and a wooden chair beside my bed. I can type from my bed with little effort but sitting in the chair gives me more of a the sense of being on task; at least, that's what I imagine. I haven't done much of anything yet. “This feels like a dorm room,” I think to myself before reminding myself that that's the point. The whole room smells like dust and aged wood. I sneeze just thinking about it. An abstract painting hangs on the wall, reds, oranges, and whites exploding all over the canvas. It's the only thing in the room that isn't modest.

I get dressed and we head out to explore the neighborhood. As we familiarize ourselves with our new surroundings, we buy what we think we'll need for the house. All around us, locals are going about their day. Many of them drift in and out of English. None of them have an issue with staring at us. And it's ok. We stand out.

The shops have different names but familiar looks. It would almost feel like home save for the massive mountain lingering behind nearly every building. Something about it tugs at my innermost parts, beckoning me toward it as if it has secrets and stories to share with me. I am shamelessly fascinated by it.

South Africa: Departure

Day 0: The dogs could tell that something was up. Mackenzie, the smaller of the two, became especially affectionate two days before I left. I found Scooter inspecting my suitcase the morning before I was to take of, howling in protest. That night, they found me on the couch and molested me with all of their dogness. I let them.

Day .5: The worst part about the security beforehand was the wait. Even though I'd shown up almost 4 hours early, it still took 90 minutes to go from bagcheck to body scan.

It wasn't long after arriving at the gate that boredom and hunger hit me simultaneously. A Buffalo Wild Wings was open at 8:30 in the morning serving beer and wings. It seemed like a dare so I did it. A few hours later, my buffalo-sauced beard and I took off for Africa.

First Impressions:

The first thing I see is Table Mountain, bidding and forbidding. People drive and walk by, passing through it's shadow as if it isn't there, as if it's an illusion.

We stuff the coach bus with our things and set out from the airport toward our new homes. And even as the airport diminishes behind us, merging with the surrounding landscape, the mountain remains wide, tall, regal. I cannot take my eyes off of it. I trace every line and peak as if committing each stone to memory. I blink and it is a different mountain. I blink again and it is new again.

Without warning, the informal settlements come into view, a patchwork of corrogated tin and steel roofs, walls, and everythings piled upon everythings. Myriad shapes, textures, and colors climb together and on top of one another, crushed and pressed together. Tyres rest atop some of the roofs, blue-green tarps wriggling beneath them. A child in red shorts bolts out from one of the shacks and begins chasing after another in blue shorts. Another smaller child stands in an alley looking on, a bright orange bowl dangling at the end of his fingers, empty. None of them wore shoes.

And then, as suddenly as it appeared, the settlement vanishes, replaced by a golf course, impecibly lush with infinite greens. Here there is no trace nor reference to the shacks and shanties. Men swing clubs with broad smiles on their faces, applauding one another and themselves. It's as if the settlement never was.

There's a word for this but it escapes me.

I try to stitch the running children and smiling golfers together and cannot. I wonder if they are strangers to one another. I wonder if the children can see the men propped up and pleased with themselves, golfing in the lazy afternoon sun. I wonder if the men notice the children run-tumbling about the settlements carried by dusty brown feet. I wonder if this is normal and wonder how that can be so.

I am not here. I am at home wrist deep in Doritos and ennui. I am staining my remote control orange and bunching my toes into fists against the carpet. I blink. I swallow. The wind sweeps past and about and through me, filling me with nameless longings. I am grasping at forgotten prayers.

I don't know where I am.