I find myself now in a place called Homeland. The name, in front of me on the screen, has lost that American twang that rings across one's (an American one's) mind when the word is spoken or read. I think now of where I am and I think that I will continue to think about where I am when I see or read that name from now on which is one of the fine blessings of travel - to nuance our lexicons with the color we have lived through, stories sprouting from the memories in quick blossom.
Homeland is one of many villages that run along a large main road. The large main road is the only (from my experience thus far) tarred and steadily maintained road around. The roads that divide Homeland into its awkward, oblong and slanting blocks are dirt. The roads that decline in slope tend to have divots and dips that make driving across them harrowing. These roads have caught the carving knife of a respectable rainstorm. I imagine on that morning after the storm many people converge on the worst roads and analyze the new divots and dips in Zulu, Sepedi, nDbele and Sesuto.
large main road
Poverty juts up against wealth just like anywhere else in the world. Each home is surrounded to the edges of its property by some kind of barrier. The poorer houses have simple fences or a few lines of barbed wire while the wealthier homes boast concrete walls that are painted bright colors. Some of those wealthier compounds have ornate metal gates. Most of the houses, regardless of the income of their inhabitants, have carved wooden doors which remind those that pass from the street or cross their threshold that it is an African home. Rhinos, antelope, dancing cave-men - all of these can be found on the front doors of Homeland and its sister villages.
wealthy home
There is no market. If you follow the main road down far enough (for a kilometer or more) you will find a low-income strip mall with cell-phone stores, a KFC, and a supermarket. Within the villages there are small shops called "spazas" which sell basic groceries, toiletries and single cigarettes. These spazas are run mostly by Pakistani men and instead of voicing "ke a leboga" (thank you) on my departure, I often employ "shukran".
Children are everywhere. They walk together to the spazas and play games in the streets. One game is played by taking a top and wounding a long piece of cord around the fat end, then, holding the loose end of the cord, one throws the top towards the ground causing it to spin. It is played with the same patient satisfaction that skipping rocks is - the only winner being the most successful and the success is communal.
common home
You cannot walk around at night. Rather, you should not. Although this is more of a general South African rule, it is very true here. Crime is swaddled by the night and the comfortable warmth and woolly darkness lend it confidence. The night is a time when mischief is afoot, when the squat walls that bar the world have their resilience tested.
When the people greet each other they use the following: "'Le kae?' 'Re gona, lena le kae?' 'Re gona.'" Translated, this means, "Where are you? We are here, where are you? We are here." We are here and we are still here, the night has not taken us away. It is dirty but not so dirty as to warrant describing it foremost as a filthy place. Bits of broken glass wait with resigned patience to be stepped on or crushed into the surrounding sands. Wrappers of oddly flavored crisps (beef, pizza and tomato sauce) flutter past and peak out from the ground. Chickens walk everywhere and roosters remind you that they are there and awake. Dogs bred as guard dogs sheepishly peck at the wrappers of oddly flavored crisps or bark barks reminding you that they are there and awake.
The lemon trees are in full-bloom. Mango trees and evergreens stand side by side, the piney evergreens reminding me of the Northeast. Those that have caught hold of steady incomes maintain a yard and somehow persuade grass to grow. They plant all kinds of trees. The lemon trees that bear fruit in the heart of winter (though winter is a strong term and should be referred to as lesser-summer) throw character and real beauty into the undecided feel of Homeland. The small orbs of bright, living yellow relax you for some reason and question if the night is a menacing as these walls seem to suggest.
veld
Perhaps it is the transitory nature of travel that makes this place feel like a rest stop. Or maybe it’s because the person writing this word grew up in the transitory nature of New Jersey. Regardless, the only reason for its genesis is the main road that slices through the Highveld. There is nothing that suggests permanence. It feels as if the people and their homes will stand up and drive-off once they've rested, continuing on to some final destination. Though it feels like this, this is not the truth. This is very much the life of very many people. And their placement is not arbitrary. The whole existence of many takes place on these awkward, oblong blocks.
There is love here. It abounds in the families that share these custom little homes. There is laughter here - you can find it in droves. Not clever laughter that is thought-wrought by quickness and wit. Simple laughter that you find springs out of the easiest things - learning the ways of a new home, attempting a click in Zulu, tasting the different flavors of crisps or spinning the top many times. Regardless of the rust, the curling barbed wire, the snapping teeth of skittish dogs – the goodness of human nature remains tenacious. It finds the fertility that its ground might contain, no matter its scarcity, a lemon tree in Homeland.