Three days at the border, waiting with the truck drivers and the pygmies, the families and the solo travellers, all of us waiting for the border to open. Maybe tomorrow, maybe later today for a few hours. Maybe, maybe maybe, maybe. Speculation and rumour rule the days. Campfires and cooking pots rule the nights. A camp is formed. A village is created. Shops spring up. I smoke weed with the pygmies and buy warm lager from the truckdriver’s buddy (navigator? passenger? co-driver? beer company representative?) He sets up a couple of short benches under a tree and brings out a couple of cases from the truck. And then a couple more…
Africa is a basket case. We don’t know why the border is closed. We just accept it. It is the way Africa operates, inefficiently, independant of all rhyme or reason. Thirty years later, when someone says to me, “it is what it is”, I say, “even more so in other places.” And when I see protesters on TV, protesting against wearing masks, spouting rhetoric about their rights and freedoms being denied, I think, you want freedom? You what to do whatever you want to do when you want to do it? Go to Africa and experience the corruption, mayhem and the true variable nature of libertarian life. It is what it is? Fuck you! Make it what you want it to be.
I have a blue tarp that I have folded over into an envelope. It keeps me directly off the ground and it keeps me dry from the morning dew. I wake from a dream about an elephant and a mouse and I lay there thinking about the relevance. I am the mouse, small and insignificant. Africa is the elephant, large and clumsy, unaware of its own potential power. And then as I drift in and out of sleep in the early morning, like the pygmies and the truck drivers at the border crossing, my thoughts pile up.
Last updated January 03, 2021