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.