by Philip Roy
Los and I took the motorbike out for a few hours. We tried a junkyard first, then the train yard. Then we snooped around a big tire factory, and then the hospital. There were tanks, for sure, but finding one that was twenty feet long, eight feet in diameter, without serious dents, not rusted out, free for the taking, or not too expensive to buy, was a challenge. They were not exactly lying around waiting for us. We tried riding past farms, small businesses, and a dump. After a few hours, Los was wearing a long face.
“Maybe you should put an ad in the paper, Los.”
“An ad?”
“Yah. If you tell people what you’re looking for, they’ll call you. The tank you’re looking for is probably out there somewhere, but we’ll never find it because we don’t know where it is. If people know that you’re willing to pay for it, they might be willing to sell it, or, they might be happy for you to just take it off their hands, for free. But . . . Los?”
“What?”
“You’re going to have to learn to weld.”
“I know. I can cut metal with a torch already, but putting it together is different.”
“Maybe you can take a course.”
“Can’t I just learn by myself?”
“No. Not welding. It’s too dangerous.”
I was starting to wonder if saying something was too dangerous to Los was like telling a bird that the sky was too high. “It’s not only that it’s dangerous. There are things you need to know so that it works right. If you don’t weld it properly, your sub will fall apart.”
His face grew even longer. “What if the course is too much money?”
“You can use the rest of the rand that I took from the pirates.”
He looked surprised. “Really? You would let me?”
“Why not? It’s not my money, anyway. And you’re dedicated to helping the environment. I can’t think of a better use for it.”
His face brightened. “You are my true friend, Alfred. One day, we will both be in the sea with our submarines.”
“I know. That will be awesome.” Then I had another thought. “Maybe there’s enough money that you won’t need to go to Soweto for your other tools. Maybe you can just buy new ones here.”
“No. I must go. I must have them.”
Rats. I was hoping we wouldn’t have to go. I didn’t have a good feeling about it at all. I wondered if I should try harder to change his mind, but didn’t know how. He was pretty stubborn. I supposed he had to be stubborn to get where he was. Still, sometimes there was a fine line between safe actions and unsafe ones, or, as my grandfather would say, between stubbornness and stupidity—my grandfather being the most stubborn person I had ever known. I had been learning about the necessity of safety ever since the day I first stepped into Ziegfried’s junkyard. I seriously doubted Los ever gave it much thought.
Chapter Twenty
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.”
Chapter Twenty-one
AS WE RACED THROUGH Soweto, with houses sliding by like brown shoeboxes, thousands of people began returning from the football match. They came up the sidewalks and streets in small and large groups. They were carrying blankets and laughing. Everyone turned to look at the motorbike with the sidecar. Lots of people waved. Many stared closely. A few times, the crowd was so thick that Los had to slow down, and I was afraid we’d get stopped, recognized, and beaten. I didn’t know if they would beat me, too. I didn’t know if they wouldn’t.
“Try not to slow down, Los.”
He nodded. I knew he knew. But I couldn’t help saying it.
Finally, we reached a house. It was a red brick house. In Canada, it would hardly make a small garage. Here, it was one of the fancier homes. Los rode across the front lawn and stopped by the side door. He called inside, but didn’t get off the bike, and didn’t shut it off. A woman came to the door. She looked shocked and angry to see him. They spoke in another language. She was very angry. She pointed up the hill, in the direction we had just come, then waved anxiously for us to leave. Los dropped his head and nodded slowly. Then he turned the bike around and went back the way we had come.
“Los! Los! We have to go . . . now!”
He nodded, but kept going.
“Los!”
“They are trying to keep me from seeing her,” he said. He was angry now. He wouldn’t look at me. The streets were getting busier.
“Do you want to get us killed?”
He shook his head, but still wouldn’t look at me.
We rode back towards the area where we had been, where the old men had sat on the bench. But we couldn’t get close. There were too many people. We stopped in the middle of the street at the bottom of the hill. There was a crowd there, and several people were looking our way. I saw a group of young men who recognized Los. I saw them draw their thumbs across their necks. Los saw it too. I wondered: if I got out, could I make a run for it? I looked around. No way. Not a chance. There was nowhere to run. Everywhere was the same: tiny houses, thousands of people in the streets.
And then, just when I was afraid it was too late, Los put the bike in gear, dropped his head close to the handlebars, turned around, and rode away. He wound in and around the people, up and down the hills, out of the crowds, and out of Soweto.
I felt such a relief, my skin was tingling. We rode for about fifteen or twenty minutes, maybe ten miles or so. We left the highly populated areas altogether, and reached the open road that led back to Ladysmith. It was turning dark now. I was feeling the dry wind on my face, and counting our blessings, when Los rolled to a stop on the side of the road. “I have to pee,” he said.
“Me too!” I had waited far too long.
“Why don’t you go over there,” he said. “And I will go here.”
“Okay.” I walked about thirty feet away, and stood behind a sign. Just as I finished, I heard the motorbike go into gear. “Los?” I came out from behind the sign and saw Los pulling away. He had turned the bike around and was heading back towards Soweto.
“Los!”
“I’ll be back!” he yelled to me. “Wait here! I won’t be lonnnnnnnnnnn . . .”
“Los! . . . Los!”
He rode a few hundred feet, then stopped. Was he coming back? No. He waved something in the air at me, then threw it into the ditch. The money. I ran as fast as I could towards him, but it was too late. He was gone when I got there. I watched him disappear.
I jumped across the ditch and picked up the bag of money. What was I supposed to do now? Hitchhike? Start walking back to Ladysmith? It would take at least a week. Los had said to wait. I looked at the ground. It was almost dark. Yes, I could sit and wait, and hope that Los would make it back. But . . . I knew in my gut that he wasn’t going to. I just knew it. No, I couldn’t sit down. And I couldn’t head towards Ladysmith.
So I started walking. I walked as quickly as I could, knowing I’d have to keep it up for two hours straight, at least. That’s how long it would take me to reach Soweto, if I were lucky and could find it. I didn’t have the map. It was in the sidecar. I didn’t have anything, except the bag of money. I supposed I could watch for a taxi. In the meantime, I would just have to try to remember the way, and follow the signs.
I heard two voices inside of me: one, telling me to hurry—go faster and faster; and the other, telling me to turn around, get the heck out of here, and save myself. These two voices fought inside of me all the way. But I only ever stopped once, when I reached the sign that said SOWETO. I felt such a sickness in my stomach then. I felt I was abandoning all that Ziegfried had ever taught me about safety and making wise decisions. But the image of Los getting beaten by a gang of angry people kept coming into my mind, and I continued. Yet, even as I hurried up the first hills, my limbs felt heavy, as if my hurrying were pointless, both for him and for me.
There weren’t as many people in the streets now. Likely they were in their homes. Many were on the sidewalks though, and in front of their houses. There was a feeling of festivity in the air, though I couldn’t enjoy it. It seemed false to me in a way, because of what I imagined was happening.
Then it occurred to me: what if Los had simply gone to visit with his sister, didn’t get caught, and was now on his way back to pick me up? What would he think when I wasn’t there? What would he do then? What if he was coming down one street while I was coming up another? I should have left him a note. Why hadn’t I done that?
Because I knew in my heart that he wasn’t coming back. Katharina’s words ran through my head—I had to keep my guardian angel close to him, to protect him. But I guess I didn’t really believe in guardian angels. I wanted to. I just didn’t.
It was very dark now, and that worked in my favour because few people seemed to pay much attention to me at first. But the deeper into Soweto I went, the more they did, until, finally, they started calling out to me. Sometimes it was friendly, and sometimes it wasn’t. When people waved, I waved and smiled back, but I couldn’t hide the fear in my face. I had been walking fast for two and a half hours now, and was starting to feel I was going in circles. Where was the hill with the long shed and the old men? Then, suddenly, I ran into what I feared most. A gang of guys about my age saw me coming down the hill into the corner of their neighbourhood, and
they came right over and stood in my way, stopping me from going any further.
“What are you doing here?” one demanded suspiciously. Another one was shaking his head in disbelief. I was in trouble.
I tried to speak without sounding afraid. I didn’t really succeed. “I’m trying to find my friend. He’s from here. He’s in danger.”
They laughed. “He’s in danger? My friend, you are in danger. What do you think you are doing here? Do you even know where you are? Man, you are lost, aren’t you?”
I took a deep breath. “Yes, I am lost, and I know I am in trouble. But my friend is in bigger trouble right now, and I’ve got to help him. Wouldn’t you help your friend?”
The leader chewed on his fingernail. “What’s your friend’s name?”
“Los.”
“Los who?”
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t know?” They laughed again. “You come in here to save your friend, and you don’t even know his last name?” He shook his head. “Why would you do that?”
“Because he’s my friend. We met just a few weeks ago. I don’t know his last name, but if I don’t find him soon, they’re going to hurt him really bad.”
“Who’s going to hurt him really bad?”
I hesitated for a moment, trying to take a quick look at each of them. I didn’t know how they would react when I said it, so I said it quietly. “Mob justice.”
It was as if I had spit poison. They took a step back. But the leader took a step closer. He raised his arm and dropped it on my shoulder. He pressed his face close to mine, spoke quietly, and pointed to another hill—a darker hill, with sparse lighting. It was a rougher area. I recognized it now. “Your friend is up there.” He squeezed my shoulder, then let go.
