Solid streams of headlights roar past in both directions. Danny looks back to the hitch he had just hiked. The car waits momentarily, then its
glittering tail-lights accelerate, merging into the rushing gleam of
glowing rubies: electric-sanguine robot-blood. Crimson against the grey
sky.
Crossing the road when the traffic momentarily pauses, he holds out his
thumb a little nervously, knowing the uncertainty of being
fourteen-years-old, , , alone, , , and free in the turbulent South African
night. The evening roadside busies itself with a symphony of grinding
engines and flashing lights: White, orange, yellow and red. Velvet-smooth, the night oozes; thick with mood: Fear.
Relief. Three familiar figures, trapse along the other side of the road,
their faces periodically obscured by the speed of flashing cars, passing
fast -
Spook, , , Marvin, , , Leon, , ,
Danny tries to wave, but they do not see him, and cannot hear him either,
amongst the growling of hard metal, and harsh burning head-light. He
walks parallel to the three figures; four lanes of 120 km/h traffic
dividing them with a constant noise of speed . . .
chaotic
pounds the
plunder of cacophonic
thunder
One face looks up momentarily from his marching boots, and notices him.
The passengers in the vehicles move between them at such pace as to be
gone the instant they are visible. Danny smiles through the flashing
anonymity of mannequined grimace - and finally sees the smile returned
back.
Crossing at an intersection, he then meets up with them. Paul (a.k.a.
Spook), Leon (With a cigarette), and Marvin The Falcon. All about the
same age. The mark of government school, imprinted on their heads in the
form of extremely short hair-cuts.
“Where you goin' ?” drawls Spook with his lurid white complexion and
silver-white hair, short, but spiked as usual. Bright eyes stand out
sharply, striking their gaze through Danny like a blizzard.
“Visit the birds.”
Spook ponders for a moment, then coolly boasts “We're goin' to the
ghetto.”
“To blow a smoke?”
“Yea-eah. . . a good greeeen smoke. . .”, his teeth grinning broadly as he
exaggerates the word ‘greeeen.’
“You wanna come?” His laugh is confident and haughty. Nonchalant.
Danny glances at the others: Leon is looking around nervously cupping his
cigarette, inhaling it in long deep drags, his nostrils streaming smoke
out into the wind.
Marvin The Falcon has his hands in his pockets, and looks like he is
leaning against an invisible pole.
Danny pauses, then feels the echo of the sting of the daily whipping on
his backside, still ice-warm and humiliating. He remembers seeing Spook's
backside covered in thick bleeding welts, cut open from lashings inflicted
by the police. Those cuts still had scabs an inch wide three months
later. If they are caught Breaking the Law of Apartheid, it will happen
again.
Regardless - it will happen again. And if the Law of Apartheid don’t
catch us, the tsotsi-gangs might.
He sharply inhales a chilly breath of the African evening, trying to
pinpoint just exactly what it is that makes it virtually impossible to
look deeply into Spook’s eyes for too long.
“Sure. . . OK”
They make their way past several blocks of infurious traffic, then stop
for a cigarette and a discussion of the best approach. Across from the
broken rubbled block on which they stand, is a busy road, then a badly
kept rugby field with crooked posts, a railway line; and then finally the
ghetto, all run down and lived in. Forbidden.
Suddenly they all turn at the sudden sound of high-powered engine, and see
a mighty military juggernaut rumbling its angry way along a dirt-road,
leaving the dusty township behind it in its wake. Pausing first, it then
claws its way onto the crumbling asphalt, forcing its bulk into the
traffic. The enormity of its tires hopelessly outsize the civilian
vehicles, which keep a safe distance from it.
As the traffic passes, in its uneven evening parade, automatic rifles
(R4's) and the helmets of twenty troopers are visible above the back of
the vehicle. The barrels of their weapons aim skywards in neat rows.
Terrifying, with insect threats. Its many pointed stings poised in
readiness.
“That will be us in four years. . . or sooner if we drop-out of school. .
.”
Danny interrupts, “maybe for you whiteys, but I’m partly Indian.”
“Ya pilluck” says Leon, “you’ve got blue eyes and blonde hair.”
“Hey the Indian part is really diluted, OK? Its like: I’m part Gypsy, and
the Gypsies originated in India, and the ones I’m descended from went to
Europe in about 1000 AD. So that makes me Indian by one part in just over
a million million.”
Marvin looks at him oddly “But there is only a few thousand million people
around today, and there never has even been anything vaguely like a
million million people. Ever.”
“You know what that means?” Danny hangs his question out in the air,
trying to draw out the anticipation.
?
Spook humours Danny, relieving the pained expressions on everyone’s faces:
“What does it mean Dan?”
“That in the short space of 40 generations, the whole population of the
planet will. . . sort of become related to each other, even if it is only
partially. For instance a small band of wandering gypsies, descended from
the Aryan races of India, could slightly dilute virtually the entire
European population within a few hundred years.”
“So we’re all Indians.” grins Spook with the irony that is always present
in the face of an albino. Especially an albino with one green eye, and
one blue eye. “I wonder if that means we can get out of the army?”
Marvin snorts “But that would mean that the whole lily white South African
Defence Force is part Indian? And, just because of a few gypsies a
thousand years ago, the whole army should actually be fighting Apartheid
against itself?”
Leon looks up from his cigarette “No way that doesn’t add up. How can we
all be related in forty generations if we are part of a race that consists
of billions?”
Danny takes a long breath: “Lets say that a one hundred year span,
consists of four generations, that means the age of the average parent is
25 years. So after 100 years I have 16 ancestors, OK?”
Spook and Marvin nod, while Leon stares at the ground.
“After 200 years, that’s 16 multiplied by 16 which is... ... ...256
ancestors. after 300 years we have about 4000 ancestors. For each 100
years we simply multiply by 16. After 400 years we have 4000 x 16 = 64
000. And after 500 years about a million potential ancestors.
If each 500 years we have a million potential ancestors, then after a
thousand years we have a million million. Of course over one thousand
years there is a lot of inbreeding and not all groups have reproductive
contact. Some are more secular and incestuous, but rape and pillage got
past a lot of those formalities, yet the numbers show you how quickly
things can happen.”
Their gape-eyed stares are interrupted by the grinding of two more
behemothic tank-like monstrosities, which beligerate their way in the same
direction that the first one went earlier. A little while later, a
yellow squadron of an half-dozen angry police vans buzz excitedly after
them.
Marvin gestures at them, speaking to Danny. “I would like to see you try
and convince that bunch of heroes that actually their
great-great-great-grand wotsit was shagging a coolie dressed as a gypsy,
one horny spring morning in a Romanian meadow.”
Spook snorts.
Leon sucks his cigarette.
They wait . . . and wait.
Wait... wait...... wait......... wait........... . . . . . . . .
. . . !
The traffic dies down. All seems normal. Now is their chance: four
young (apparently) white kids with government regulation crew-cuts, trying
to make that one single part in a million million stand out as much as
possible.
Marvin grabs onto Leon’s arm tightly, and hisses “Wait!” and quickly
drops to his knees. The others instinctively mimic his move...
As they watch, a fourth MILITARY-BEAST-FROM-HELL struggles up the side of
the road and grinds its way after the others of its ilk. Its tires take a
couple of deep bites out of the road as it scrambles up the embankment.
Then it speeds after the others; fretfully as if something were watching
it from the shadows.
Leon whispers to Danny “I don’t know what’s more scary, the South African
Defense Force, the tsotsi-gangs, or how Marvin the Falcon keeps having
premonitions before the pigs turn up.”
Still crouching, Danny looks at Leon. He stands up, and while doing so
picks up a couple of handy sized stones, and slips them into his pocket.
One of them fits easily into his fist, the jagged end of the stone
protruding out between his fingers like a zap-sign.
They cross the road, and dart quickly away from the brightness of the
streetlights, following a footpath around the rugby field. Cross the
railway line . . . then safely between the shacks and the comfort of
water-logged, muddy-worn pathways. Rickety fences. Here it doesn't seem
to matter whose walls are whose, everyone crosses anyone's territory all
the time anyway. People just walk through your backyard all the time. In
whitey-land that sort behaviour normally got you a gun in your back . . .
or a bullet if you were a bit unlucky.
About half a box of smokes have been bummed, before they are guided by
some youths to somebody’s kaya. (Cigarettes can get you anywhere here.)
They enter into a small candle-lit room with a single bed, and with walls
made of paper and cardboard. Plastic roof. Politely, they are offered
the bed to sit on, and so all sit in a row across it, leaning their backs
against the wall of soft damp newspaper. As they sit down, a latch shuts
loudly and suddenly across the door from outside.
About six youths of the same age as the four intrepid travellers crowd the
floor, and before long their is a soft knock. The latch is opened and at
least another half dozen gleaming black faces enter the room. The more
youthful ones are sent off with the ready money to buy the good stuff.
To fix the bad stuff.
As the first sweet puffs of Marijuana evaporate into the darkness of the
heavens, the conversation becomes warmer and friendlier - though Marvin is
looking a shade greener than the herb that he puffs. The talk is of
football, and the black-white crossover band Juluka.
It is contentiously agreed that the best smoke is Lexington. Danny
notices Marvin's eyes roll, tongue loll, , , lips droll - “Just now, one
of us is going to say something stupid - like Kaffir - ?”
The room drops into silence.
Row upon row upon row upon row upon row upon row upon row upon row upon row upon row upon row upon row upon row upon row upon row upon row line of line of line of line of line of line of line of line of line of line of line of line of line of line of line of line of line of line of line of line of line of line of line of line of line of line of line of line of line of line of line of line of line of line of line of line of legion of legion of legion of legion of legion of legion of legion of legion of legion of legion of legion of legion of legion of legion of legion of legion of legion of legion of soldiers soldiers soldiers soldiers soldiers soldiers soldiers soldiers soldiers soldiers soldiers soldiers soldiers soldiers soldiers soldiers soldiers soldiers soldiers soldiers soldiers soldiers soldiers soldiers soldiers soldiers soldiers soldiers soldiers soldiers soldiers soldiers soldiers soldiers soldiers soldiers soldiers soldiers soldiers soldiers soldiers soldiers soldiers soldiers soldiers soldiers soldiers soldiers soldiers soldiers soldiers soldiers soldiers soldiers soldiers soldiers soldiers soldiers soldiers soldiers soldiers soldiers soldiers soldiers soldiers soldiers soldiers soldiers soldiers soldiers soldiers soldiers soldiers soldiers soldiers soldiers soldiers soldiers soldiers soldiers soldiers soldiers soldiers soldiers soldiers soldiers soldiers soldiers soldiers soldiers soldiers soldiers soldiers soldiers soldiers soldiers soldiers soldiers soldiers soldiers soldiers soldiers soldiers soldiers soldiers soldiers soldiers soldiers soldiers soldiers soldiers soldiers soldiers soldiers soldiers soldiers soldiers soldiers soldiers soldiers soldiers soldiers soldiers soldiers soldiers all all all all all all all all all all all all all all all all all all all all all all all all all all all all all all all all all all all all all all all all all all all l all all all all all all all all all all all all all all all all all all all all all all all all all all all all all all all all all all all all all fall fall fall fall fall fall fall fall fall fall fall fall fall fall fall fall fall fall fall fall fall fall fall fall fall fall fall fall fall fall fall fall fall fall fall fall fall fall fall fall fall fall fall fall fall fall fall fall fall fall fall fall fall fall fall fall fall fall fall fall fall fall down and down and down and down and down and down and down and down and down and down
and down and down and
die.
A sudden look of shock crosses the white-boys’ faces, at the absurd
mutterings of Marvin the Falcon, (the profane word ‘Kaffir’ ringing in
everyone’s ears still). Danny feels the stone bristle between his
fingers, deep in the pocket of his jacket.
An eternity hung in a moment of suspense
Everyone unsure what will happen next.
Instinctively, Danny relaxes as a beautiful grinning set of teeth, and
sniggering-brown set of eyes, offer the marijuana-joint to him out of the
darkness.
Majola feels huge waves of laughter rising up inside him. He tries to
hold the smoke in his lungs, whilst trying to hold the laugh in his belly.
The result is that he chugs along like a train, little bits of smoke
escaping his nostrils (and ears?) in the slip-stream of his chuckles. The
result of which cracks up Bongani completely, who falls over, literally
rolling on the floor in his mirth, pointing at Majola’s distracting
explosion. The shack rocks with tears and peels of laughter. Spook, Leon
and Danny can’t help their grins melting into the joyous relief that
encompasses them.
Marvin just buries his head in his hands, a snicker escaping out the side
“I can’t believe I said that. I’m such an idiot.”
Danny tries a small toke, then takes a long tug on the reefer. The
sweet-sacred aroma, a combination of cinnamon, butter, honey, ice-cream,
caramel, chocolate, spring-water, laughter, and freshly cut lawn,
penetrating his thoughts.
A wooooosh of awareness uplifts him, and he exhales as he has just been
shown: Out through the nostrils and not the mouth, in the manner of a
normal cycle of breathing.
He feels a tingling in his nose, as the night comes alive.
What previously had just seemed to be a shanty-town, is now a community of
togetherness, peace and belonging. Of laughter and song. Of the most
ancient form of compassionate understanding, and always of forgiveness.
Of humour.
Buzzing spirit.
Under the brightest display of the nearby milky-way, an old guitar
ke-chanked the night away, echoing the epistle of Robert Nestor Marley.
In the distance, chorused the angry howl-barking of hound-dogs, ‘midst the
gentle hub-hub of rocking township sway. I feel Irie Today.
FRITJOF CAPRA
ALDOUS HUXLEY
W.B. YEATS
