WE LEFT FRIDAY, mid-morning. We didn’t want to arrive in Soweto before noon. The middle of the afternoon would be best, when everyone was expected to be away. And we had to be gone by twilight, when people would begin to trickle back. By dark, there would be a mass movement of people in the streets. We had to be long gone by then, Katharina said, if we valued our lives. And I certainly valued mine.
It was two hundred and fifty miles. Soweto was on the southwest corner of Johannesburg. But we were coming from the south, so we wouldn’t have to pass through the big city—one of the biggest and most dangerous cities in the world. Even my guidebook advised avoiding Jo’burg if possible, and said that entering Soweto without a local guide was basically suicide. This wasn’t a part of Africa I was keen to see. And I’d be glad when we had grabbed the tools and were on our way.
All the same, the road leading north was beautiful. There were mountains on the horizon, and rocky plateaus that reminded me of pictures of Nevada and Arizona—places I wanted to visit someday. There were zebras and ostriches too, but no elephants, giraffes, or hippos. It was very dry. And the further north we went, the drier it became, and the fewer animals we saw. I knew what Africa would become much further north because I had seen it before. I had ridden on the back of a camel into the Sahara Desert when we were in the Mediterranean a year and a half ago. The Sahara was a world that swallowed whole cities in sand.
We rode at a steady pace, not too fast. The bike developed a wobble if we went over fifty miles an hour. We stopped a few times to get out and stretch. Los knew the way, but I brought along a map for myself. It was so deeply ingrained in me to know where I was at all times, in terms of longitude and latitude, even on land, that I felt lost without it.
The closer we got to the giant metropolis, the more people we saw. At first, there were people walking alone along vast open stretches, especially women, carrying baskets on their heads. They walked where there were no towns, houses, or even trees. They walked under the direct glare of the sun, and never seemed to grow tired. But they must have been. It was hard to believe. You would never see such a thing in Canada.
Closer to the urban world, we saw small groups walking together, cars and buses. Now we began to see shanties in the open plain. You couldn’t call them fields because there was hardly a blade of grass. It was so hot and dry. I was used to the heat now, after India and the Pacific, and yet it was intensified here in a way as we approached the city, that made it seem almost suffocating.
Finally, we saw signs for Johannesburg. Los made a sharp left turn, and we headed west towards Soweto. There were thousands of people along the streets and outskirts now. Nobody here was watching football today. But this was not Soweto.
As we drew nearer to the township, the streets became quieter, which I took as a good sign. They never grew completely quiet, as I had expected, not even when we turned into the first neighbourhood beyond a sign that said SOWETO. Soweto stood for South Western Townships. It was an area of Johannesburg created when the leaders who started Apartheid forced all of the people who worked in the gold mines—black people—to live together in a community, away from all of the white people. I took a glance at the height of the sun as we entered. It was mid-afternoon.
Los rode rigidly, keeping his eyes straight, and not looking around. I couldn’t help looking around; it was so interesting. It was extremely plain and poor. The houses were as small as houses could be, and there were thousands and thousands of them. They sat on rounded hills like an endless factory built out of individual blocks. There were very few trees, and just on certain streets. Some of the houses, as tiny as they were, had nice cars parked in front of them, which reminded me why Los shouldn’t be here in the first place.
And there were people here, at least a few, on every street and corner. They watched us as we rode past. There were very few kids. The ones that we did see waved at us. The adults didn’t. I just hoped that no one recognized Los, or, if they did, that we could grab the tools and get the heck out of here before they had time to come together and plan his punishment. I couldn’t help feeling nervous. The thought of being beaten until all of our muscles were mush kept running through my mind. I could see why there would be no effective policing here. It was so vast, and there was such a sense of . . . I didn’t know what else to call it except . . . desperation. Desperation with roots.
“Los. How much longer before we find the tools?”
He frowned tightly. “It’s close!”
We rolled up and down the hills, riding deeper and deeper into the heart of Soweto. I looked for the sun, but it was behind me. It seemed to have fallen a lot in a short time. Finally, we slowed down on the crest of a hill, and Los veered off the road between some houses. Now we were on a dirt path with shanties, ditches, and garbage everywhere. It was filthy. I tried to get a sense of our direction in case I had to make my own way out, but it was impossible. There were too many twists and turns. Too many directions all looked the same. Suddenly Los came to a stop. I looked over and saw a long low shed with a rusty steel roof. The walls had been put together with pieces of wood, metal, and plastic. Along one side of it, on a long wooden bench, sat five men. They looked old and crippled. I saw their hands rise in the air when Los stepped from the bike. They recognized him. I knew that was a bad thing, but the men seemed friendly enough. No doubt they were too old to go and watch the football match.
Los crossed the yard and greeted the men in another language. He shook all of their hands, dropped his head, and spoke respectfully to them. They spoke respectfully back. They liked him. I could tell. He spoke to them for a few minutes, pointed to the bike, pointed to me, and then shook their hands once more. Then he turned around and motioned for me to follow him into a nearby shanty. I waved to the men, who waved back, and I followed him.
It was dark inside. The floor was just dirt. Los moved a bench out of the way, dug into the floor with his fingers until he found a piece of rope, and pulled on it. Up came a board, and underneath, was a hole in the ground. He reached down and pulled up an old blanket wrapped around something. He laid it down on the floor and opened it. As my eyes adjusted to the darkness inside the shanty, I saw a collection of wrenches, hand-drills, screwdrivers, punches, hammers, and chisels. They were nice old tools, but surely this was not all we had come for, risking our lives?
“Los. Tell me this is not why we have come here. Surely not just for this? We could find this anywhere.”
He glanced up at me. He looked apologetic. “No,” he said. “There is something else.”
“What?”
“Someone I have to see.”
I was starting to feel impatient. “Who?”
He paused.
“Who, Los? We’ve come all this way.”
“I want to see my sister.”