A Piece Rambles from my Travels

"This is a no doubt, poorly edited piece of rambling that I started throwing together in Cape Town.  If anyone is an English major don't look too closely, because I am and I will be embarrassed.  Enjoy."

Day I

We left Detroit in the late afternoon and chased the summer sun all the way across the northeastern tip of Canada, up and over New Foundland and into the vast expanse of the Atlantic.  The sun was leaving us behind, but up here, just off the coast of Greenland in the northern hemisphere’s summer, it doesn’t take very long for the sun to slip around and come up the other side.  At 33,000 feet it’s like the land of eternal day and as dusk should slip into night morning comes rushing up to meet us, painting the shelves of clouds, so close to heaven, pink and crimson—a perfect, blushing sunrise.  Overall it has been an enjoyable journey; mild air, decent passengers and better than average airline food.  We ae a veritable smorgasbord of the human race packed into a giant aluminum toothpaste tube with wings; waiting to be squeezed out into one of the most perverse and profoundly “free” cities on the planet; Amsterdam. We begin our slow decent out of the clear and painted morning and into a deep mist that hangs over the Netherlands like a winter blanket.  Looking below I am sure it is the sea, but you can’t tell.  The engines are quiet with the descent and here we are, lost in this sea of fog—which way is up, which way is down?  Then land quickly transfigures from grey mist and there is a shore, breakers white against the dark sea and green, such green fields.  I am struck with my own egocentrism.  I have only thought of myself up in this plane, my loved ones at home and those I will be seeing soon in Africa, but now as I stare at these picturesque little farmhouses set into corners of fields, I am struck with the thought that in these houses are people who live and die, walls that ring with laughter and flow with tears.  Grandchildren are bounced on the knees of an ancient patriarch and souls come and go with the passing of years.  This is a big world we live in, how foolish to only think of my corner.

Day II 

In Amsterdam it’s a waiting game.  We pass the time walking through passages and look at what the Netherlands has to offer at 5 a.m.  It’s surprisingly busy here and look, there’s a McDonalds—proof that though the Europeans may hate us for our capitalism, they will still embrace one of It’s greatest trophies and offer you in broken English, an egg mcmuffin, croissant and coffee if you’re willing to pay over 6 euros for it.  Like a fool I pay it and no, it really wasn’t worth it.  Then it’s down to our gate; there’s really nothing else to do.  The T.V. on the wall shows Robert Gibbs ‘um-ing’ his way through a statement on the death of Michael Jackson.  I find it hard to believe that one man’s death, the man who made walking backwards into a fine art and plastic surgery into a nightmare could put political turmoil in Iran, warmongering from North Korea and a hundred other stories involving the death of so many, completely on hold.  We as a society, rather we as a world have lost our grip on true reality.  At the gate it is supremely boring.  I strike up a conversation with a man I met in Detroit, he is heading back to Africa to hunt.  He says he goes every year.  It’s a nice chat, but I’m put off by his nobler, American, patronizing attitude.  I can almost see him leading in a brigade during colonization to teach those savages about the truth (which it seems you can only do if you confiscate their land and destroy their way of life).  Perhaps I shouldn’t read so much into people; he seems fairly innocuous.  It’s back to the gate after laps up and down the passage in preparation for 11+ hours in another jet.  Still Michael Jackson on the T.V., but right next to it they’ve finally seen fit to open the bookstore.  Yes! I love bookstores.  I start to go in, but think better of it since in Amsterdam half of the magazines on the rack would make a sailor blush with shame…or at least they should.  I content myself by looking at a rolling bin of books that have been thrust out into the thoroughfare to catch someone’s eye.  The titles are mostly in Dutch and only one I can really translate, “The Shadow of the Wind.”  I rather like it.  While I’m standing there, a young woman my age sidles up to me (and by ‘sidles’ I mean she came walking up slumped over a fairly packed cart) and asks me a question.  I had noticed her “perusing” books, but often casting a glance my way, which my male ego would have liked to think had something to do with a great profile.  In truth it turns out my face says sucker on it.  She says in a profoundly, South African accent, “Could you carry one of my bags, I have too many and I’m already over my weight and I’m afraid I’ll get into trouble.”  She looks a little tipsy, but seems harmless and I agree under the condition that she puts them all on the conveyor as her own.  She sandwiches into the long line and gets between Travis and I.  I help her through and leave her to herself where she promptly falls asleep.  With no sleep since 4:30 a.m. Friday morning, I’m a little gone and after the usual cattle-like jostling into the airplane I drift in and out of consciousness until we are well into the air.  I put Toy Story 2 on and fall asleep again, miss a meal and continue to sleep.  It’s actually a bit of a trick to sleep since we are at the back of a long plane that operates something like an over-excited puppy when you walk through the door and so for what seems like endless hours we are rocked back and forth like a grandma on prednisone who has been commissioned to put you to sleep.

Day III 

It’s nearly time to land and the plane still looks like the cocktail parties I used to park cars for.  People are milling about, some walking laps and several just standing in groups of three and sometimes four chatting and laughing.  The only difference is that only some have alcohol in their hands and the general party wear has been changed; the pearls are replaced by badly wrinkled clothing and the body odor that comes with two days in a floating train car.  We are like cattle, very sociable cattle with a few frolickers and a few that haven’t stopped chewing their cud for the last ten hours.   Capetown comes into view, a bed of lights and we are down and waiting.  One man in a black shirt and camo shorts makes a valiant effort to get down the aisle before the tide of bodies breaks loose from their bonds, but he only makes it a few feet and is brought up short.  After a long passport line we come out into the baggage claim where I am praying that everything came through fine…thank God it did.  I believe in the power of prayer and especially see its need where luggage and Africa are concerned.  The bags set and we are on our way out when a young man dressed rather impeccably for the 11+ hour journey that just ended and a soft southern drawl stops me and asks me if I would be willing to video him with his camera; his girlfriend is out there and he wants to propose.  I agree, but I can also see Delani, her mother and aunt out there waiting so I tell him I’ll be back.  After the exchange of greetings I quickly explain that I have to go back and video a proposal.   I go back and after a brief explanation of how to run a point-and-shoot camera (since they’re so difficult) I follow him like an awkward puppy out through the doors and to his waiting, soon-to-be-fiancé.  She seems appropriately surprised to see him and I catch the whole thing, from the bending of the knee to the mouth-wide-open-I-never-saw-it-coming expression, to the handing over of the ring.  It seems a success.  I’m glad because I would have wanted to crawl between the tile squares if she had said no…I can’t even imagine how he would have felt.