Sunday was supposed to be spent in cultural villages, soaking up the local flavour. A huge breakfast leaves us incapacitated, and we lounge around like fat crocodiles next to the pool, on the grass, reading in the shade, dozing, chatting, scheming, dreaming. I talk to a guy from England whose natural rhythm is not having a natural rhythm, and whose hairwrapping skills payed for him to go to Swaziland. Because I'm a sucker for stories, I believe that a floating shoestore is one of the seven wonders of the modern world. He talks about reality tv in Japan where the purpose of the show is to lose your virginity, and the infamous suicide clubs. The evening passes too quickly, and we never get to play fire for the group of girls from Holland.
The next morning we get up early, sluggishly, sad that we have to leave. Still spend a good three hours talking crap and eating hotdogs with suspiciously orange-tinted sausage inside. Finally we tear ourslves away, and visit a candle factory, a batik shop where I buy another Africa shirt to wear in Eastern countries, return to House on Fire for some daylight photographs, the road is long and the weather humid and hot. My jeans are sticking to my legs and my feet are itching like crazy where Swaziland mosquitoes had a all-you-can-eat feast on my feet. I've never been bitten this badly, not even in high summer. My feet resemble a leper's, and I'll be surprised if I don't get malaria.
We drive up and down a few wrong roads, all directional mistakes providing us with new, amazing views. Some black teenagers shout at us to turn around and go the other way, and for a second I feel like an intruder, unwanted in this country. We drive past billboards advertising MTN and Shoprite, and warning against AIDS for old time's sake. Moloko and more mountains Stamp our passports, stop in a beautiful pine forest for a smoke and Baker's biscuits. Mariska shares her knowledge on mushrooms, we spotted five different types in a 100m walk. We stop at a very small town called Chrissiesmeer to stretch our legs, and while waiting to pay for my juice, I overhear the cashier and another lady complaining about the pointlessness of life. "Eat, sleep, work and shit. That's all that happens in life, you know it."
Another stop in Ermelo for lunch, a burger with so much chutney that I have to ask the cashier for a wet cloth with which to clean myself afterwards. In Secunda, the town where I spent the first three years of my life we have coffee, we switch cars, I consider amputating my itchy feet; we exchange luggage, sort out money and I'm on my own again. Singing along to Morcheeba, I become addicted to track 6. The roads are - as all my roads in 2005 - long, straight and dark.
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