Southern shenanigans

Israel might have been on the schedule, as well as Jordan and Egypt... Months would be spent in the arid Middle East, two-tyredly discovering the secrets of the desert.. until I decided to ditch my bike. Last week I landed in Johannesburg.

The arrival in the known-unknown of that Southern cradle of humankind, dustbin of ethical constraints, carrybag full with gratuitous smiles and mosaic of multitudes went with a familiar awe at the stories in the news. This time the main feature was drug smuggling, but with a typical African twist. Carrying 1,5 kg coke hidden in your dreadlocks is not only a feat of incredible ingenuity, it also takes a similar dose of stupidity, certainly when you decide to sport your opiate hairstyle in Thailand. It seems, however, proudly South African these days to be caught in East Asia with enough incriminating goodies on you to see your future vanish with the speed of Bruce Lee's flying fists, as another drug mule was made an ass of by being executed last week in China. Not ayoba.

Easing back into South African life goes with a surprising smoothness only stirred by sudden jolts of physical recollection and paired awareness: I am here! I was not here, I was somewhere else entirely... yet now I am here again! Within minutes after arriving I had purchased a working SIM card with the best rates, found out how to get to my destination and was on my way, thinking relieved about the spared energy those simple steps would have cost me in Turkey.

Rain is pouring down in the Cape, which is a very strange occurrence in December, but it allows for drowsy herb-scented indoor gatherings where words like "umbrero" can be coined, when friends envisioned a cross between an umbrella and a sombrero. The concept quite soon proved to be problematic, as a sombrero is known for its erect sides and in a fierce torrent of Cape proportions would cause someone (not completely untraditional) to balance a tub of water on their heads. The creativity, however, certainly earned them enough kudos for the next round of "Word Play", where they will meet with fellow contender Jonathan Lewis, author of the phrase: "'Turkish breakfast' sounds like something they would do in Guantanamo bay".

Sometimes I think of my bike, that I so roughly and abruptly parked in a cold and dark garage in the soggy part of Europe, and wonder if she misses me. Or if she might be happy not have her slender frame weighed down every day by my stout figure. But the thoughts halt after a while, when I must admit to myself that I cannot know what a bike thinks. At first because I'm not a bike, and secondly because I don't exclude the possibility that bikes just don't think at all. But then I send her happy thoughts, whispering in her handlebar that now she can rest and one day, one day when the sun is out, we will ride together again. And I'm sure at that point, hardly noticeable, somewhere far away, in a cosy box, a bikesmile passes the spokes of a content machine.