On a taxi north of Polokwane
As I look out the window from the back seat of an unusually new and clean taxi, the rockiness of the hills in the distance tells me that I’m not home yet. The hills at home would be vast and everywhere and either blanketed in trees or terraced for farms, whereas the hills in southern Limpopo have a more untamed and independent nature. It’s like some rocks got together out on the plains and decided they’d form a hill by the side of the road, not caring what anyone else thinks. The hills I’m seeing now are in between these two: not very rocky and connected for the most part, but still not like home.
Outside, the bright sun and the lack of trees much taller than I am seems downright incongruous with how fresh and green everything is. We drive by a stripe of short trees in full bloom with yellow flowers, surrounded on either side by similar-looking trees with pale green blooms. As I’m focusing on this in the distance, a streak of blue flashes in front of me. A row of old buildings, the first one with its ceiling gone and blue painted rafters exposed, sits there alone, looking bright and clean despite being in alone and abandoned in the middle of nowhere.
This is what you miss when you fall asleep on the taxi ride.