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 grasping at forgotten prayers. I don't know where I am.
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