And then, having left my home on
the Cape thirty six hours earlier, the Etihad Airlines captain announces in
Arabic that we have begun our descent into Johannesburg, I waltz through
customs, a man lets me use his cell phone to call the driver who works with the
hostel where I have booked a room (who answers her phone awakened from sleep at
4 A.M. with a smile) who picks me up within twenty minutes, and inasmuch as I
have not changed dollars into rand tells me I can pay her when she comes by
tomorrow. By six A.M. I am asleep in a
very comfortable bed in the Romance Suite at the Happy Backpacker for 20$ a
night.
I awaken by 9, jetlag a
myth to me, and wander the streets of Yeoville, the only white person, and in
almost complete comfort. No one
stares. Many of the women are
exceptionally beautiful and sexy. There are a dozen hairstyling salons in a six-block
area, as well as hair braiders on every street, often braiding in teams of two
or three. There are no cafes, no coffee shops
or teashops. There are busy Internet
Cafés. I ask a woman reading a one block
long community bulletin board mostly seeking rooms and roommates if there is
anywhere I can get a cup of good coffee and she says, “My place,” laughing and
touching me on the arm. There is a one Kentucky
Fried Chicken, one McDonalds. There are bars, liquor stores, convenience
stores, electronics stores, and banks on every block. I wander into the public library, which is
dank, empty, and has few titles. There
is a park filled with men in animated conversation and one busy ping pong table
with not very good players. Small
children carry smaller children. Women
carry infants in backpacks made of blankets.
There is a Reggae band playing in a garage in someone’s back yard that I
wander into and listen along with two dozen other men. The band is good. Everyone, and I do mean everyone, is smoking
marijuana. Vendors line the sidewalks
selling trinkets, vegetables, watches, shoes, and one seller of roasted
grubs. I buy a banana, peanuts, a roasted
ear of corn. A few school children appear in green sports jackets and white
shirts. A preacher in a suit holds court
outside a bar. A poster on a pole
advertises penis enlargement cream. American
rap music is heard on radios in passing cars. I sip a draft beer at an outside bar and watch
the world go by. This world, I expect,
looks just like this every day.
Friendly, but not engaged with strangers, and somehow almost blasé, sans
hustle, sans speed or urgency, just what goes on … and goes on … and goes
on. I buy three eggs to boil back at the
hostel, a pack of crackers, and teabags. Yeoville is clearly not a tourist
destination and I can’t imagine ever being drawn back here. Still, it has served my purposes, and I look
forward to moving on.
The streets are filled with people under a South African sun
... reading the classified pages ...
... and even a rainbow ...