Squizo...

 

I am deep into the muddied waters of the cienaga, but when I go up to the surface to grasp some air, I first hear Mammy, babu, and sawubona. The taxi buses that crown the streets just below my house are smelling of apartheid and Africa wakes up to be much more than the marketing name brand of the exotic other that I am used to seeing.

I’m in the middle of a huge pavilion in Sandton, the wealthiest part of town, a city within a city built on the fear of the other. As apartheid began to crumble, Joburg’s downtown center, the commercial and residential heart of the white city began to dissipate. People, that is whites, got scared and left to build Sandton, a suburb in the northern outskirts which today is the financial district and residential enclave of white money. As we drove there we were passed by ferarris and the parking lot had its own share of Roll’s and fancy cars. Then it was a wonderful trip into lots and lots of photography, and at night a performance on Afropolitanism, performed by a friend at the Joburg art gallery. We ended the night at a party at the old Joburg stock exchange.

Last night a quick run to take some friends back into the deep of Soweto, trying to remember the turns here and the landmarks there for our return out of yet another enclave of race and politics in a growing metropolis.

Today the rain and weather have taken me back to Bogota while I freeze my ass off in my little cottage and my feet tell me I am not in Africa. But I am.

Ps. Need to get a digital camera. But still, if I hadn’t I couldn’t pass on the aroma of the remolacha (beet) soup that I plan to devour only if for body heat and a yet unknown flavour.